


Spark and Fade

by old_blue



Series: Sacrifice [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Case Fic, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mordo Is Too, Mystery, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Stephen Is A Mess, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 51,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_blue/pseuds/old_blue
Summary: When a dangerous artifact disappears, Stephen and Mordo must work together to recover it before the unthinkable happens. But can they really trust each other?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a loose sequel to **The Art of Sacrifice** , but it can also stand alone. Takes place after Doctor Strange, but before Ragnorok and Infinity War.
> 
> I love all comments and crits, equally and without reservations. So, please, give 'em to me ;)
> 
>  **Detailed warnings:**  
>  There is one scene in a later chapter that might be considered rape/non-con. I don't think it quite meets that definition so I haven't used the archive warnings for it, but it's definitely very dubious consent with some rough sex, at least. Might be triggering, so read at your own risk. Also contains some descriptions of crime scenes and violence, hence the warning for violence.
> 
> Hey, I tried to be good, but when you've got Dark!Mordo, things are gonna get dark...

Stephen stumbles through the gateway and into the Sanctum. Turns to stare behind him until the last of the sparks fade away.

Home. Finally, home. _Christ, he's tired._

The old building is quiet, almost too quiet after the noise and excitement of the alien world he's just come from. The only sound in here is the steady murmur of heavy rain hitting the windowpanes and rattling through the old gutters. 

_What time is it here anyway?_ He checks his broken watch, trying to force his eyes to focus on the little hands behind the cracks. _Nine_. It's dark out, so he figures it must be nine at night. Amazing how long it took him to logic that out in his head. _.._

_But what day is it?_

Does it matter? He's just going to sleep for the next two or three days anyway. And he's never going to think about tentacles again. Not for at least a week. If he can help it. Kind of a difficult promise to keep in his line of work, he's discovering.

Even the cloak is feeling it—there's barely a twitch from where it's draped over his shoulders. And why does he suddenly feel like he's the one being ridden? Damn thing is heavy when it's just hanging there. He thinks maybe the cloak could be pulling more of its weight around here. Or his weight. But really, the only thing he needs to think about right now is his bed. He drags himself a few feet down the hallway before realizing that he feels terribly damp. And sticky. He holds his hands up, finally noticing the gift those little bastards left for him.

_Slime. Tentacle slime. Perfect._

He doubles back to check his reflection in a mirror. _God, he's a mess!_ Greenish slime is covering just about every part of him, darkening his robes and practically dripping off his arms. Except the cloak—he eyes it suspiciously.

"How did you stay so clean?"

The cloak does its best impression of an inanimate object.

He shakes his head at it, then turns back to the mirror, scowling. He might have to take a shower before sleeping, before touching anything actually... He tries patting down his hair where it's stuck up in little spikes of dried slime. _No use_ , he thinks. At least they were relatively friendly tentacle monsters... maybe a little too friendly. And now they're back where they belong, in their own dimension. And so is he. Therefore... problem solved.

He starts to drag himself up the stairs to the second floor, wondering if he's lazy enough to conjure a gateway directly to his bedroom—too much trouble to lift his hands, he decides—when there's a sudden loud bang from down in the foyer.

The instant rush of adrenaline makes him sway on his feet, heart pounding. The cloak manages to keep them both upright when he stumbles on the stairs.

_Front doors_ , he thinks. He looks around frantically—no orange spell-light flickering. No sigils glowing on the windows. The wards are quiet. Whoever it is, they must not be a threat, then.

_Still_... He doesn't take any chances. Not anymore.

He waits, but the wards are stay quiet. Approaches the doors slowly. He gestures to release the magical locks he's put on the doors. Nothing happens, so he takes a deep breath and cautiously pulls one open. There's a figure—a man, he realizes—in a black coat on the steps, just inside the veil of rain pouring off the roof, hood pulled down over his face. And then he pushes the hood back, shakes the water off of his face.

It takes a few seconds for Stephen's mind to catch up with his eyes. _Mordo._ And then he can't help the rush of conflicting feelings that rise up and threaten to choke him: _fear, pain, regret, happiness, sadness, anger_.

_What the fuck is he doing here? Why is he back?_

"Strange," Mordo says, but he makes no move to come any closer.

And after what happened last time, Stephen's not sure he wants him to.

"What are you doing here?" He can't quite keep the emotion out of his voice. 

"I need... I need your help. _Please."_ Mordo stumbles forward slightly into the edge of the light pooling on the front steps.

His brows are furrowed, and Stephen can see that his eyes are glassy.  _Something's wrong._ Then he notices the hand clutching his shoulder and the blood making a darker stain than water on the black fabric.  _He's injured._

_Shit._

Stephen makes a decision in an instant. And it's an easy one—if Mordo's hurt, he has to help him. He grabs for the other man, just as Mordo falls forward, his useless fingers scrabbling at Mordo's arms, trying to hold him up. The cloak quickly winds itself around Mordo and between the two of them they manage to drag him into the Sanctum and lay him out on the floor in a puddle of water.

Stephen glances around again, checking on the wards, but they stay resolutely silent. 

_Decision made_ , he thinks. _Probably the wrong one._ Nothing he can do about it now.

He forces the thought away to concentrate on Mordo. Crouching down next to him, he lays his fingers on the other man's neck, checking his pulse. Steady and strong. He's breathing well, at least. _Stable_ , he thinks.

He pulls the sweatshirt as carefully as he can off of Mordo's injured shoulder and tears at the ripped t-shirt underneath to get a better look at the wound. Slightly ragged edges, about six inches long— _not a knife wound, something else then?_ —running horizontally from just above his collarbone to the top of his biceps. Deep enough to need stitches, but not too deep to tear into the muscle below. Hasn't cut through any major blood vessels. It's still bleeding, but only a slow seep. Based on the amount of blood on Mordo's clothes, doesn't look like it bled much, even when it was fresh. Not enough to cause Mordo to pass out. 

He quickly checks the rest of him over. No head injuries that he can see, nothing to explain why he's unconscious. If he can't rouse him soon, he'll need to get Mordo to the hospital for a proper work-up.

He's running his hands down along Mordo's wet sides, when he feels it...

Something stuck in the waistband of his pants, under the edge of his hoodie. He jerks his hand away. _Gun_. No mistaking that shape for anything else. 

Stephen pulls the sweatshirt up to get a better look. The gun is small, black, plastic and metal, looks almost like a toy. He knows it's not. He sits back on his heels, runs a trembling hand over his mouth. 

_Should he take it?_ He doesn't know a damn thing about guns beyond the damage they inflict on human bodies, would be more likely to accidentally shoot himself than anything else if he messed with it. _Still_...

He pulls it out by the grip, careful not to let his fingers stray near the trigger in case it's loaded. _Of course it is_ , he thinks. _What would be the point, otherwise?_ He takes it to the study and hides it in a drawer at his desk, wipes his hands down the front of his robes as if touching the gun was enough to contaminate them.

_Why does Mordo need a gun?_

Stephen walks slowly back to where he's lying, still unconscious, stoops down again. "Mordo, hey. Wake up." He gives Mordo the smallest possible shake, just in case there's something he missed, some hidden injury. The other man's eyelids flutter. "Come on, talk to me."

Finally, Mordo's eyes open. He stares blankly for a few seconds before blinking slowly and focusing on Stephen's face. "Strange," he mumbles.

"Yep, that's me." Stephen lets out a long shaky breath, relieved. "Any injuries other than your shoulder? Any pain anywhere?"

Mordo hesitates, but shakes his head slightly. "No."

"What happened?"

"Got into a small disagreement over a relic." 

Mordo starts to sit up, but Stephen presses a hand to his chest, holding him down. "Hold on, hold on. Take it easy. You just passed out. I don't think you should try to get up yet."

Mordo moves his hand away carefully. "I'm fine. It won't happen again. The cause is not… related to my injuries." This time when he tries, Stephen lets him sit up.

"You'll need stitches for that." He points to Mordo's shoulder. "We should get you to the hospital."

Mordo grimaces and pulls at his ruined t-shirt, inspecting the damage. "You can do it."

Stephen considers this. He's been making reconnaissance trips to Metro-General—at night, to the closed urgent care clinic—just to pick up a few things for himself. Bandages, gauze pads, vaccines he never thought he needed before he started dimension-hopping, antibiotics for that one time some kind of snake with wings bit him and it got infected. And a suture kit he hasn't used yet. Maybe it's stealing, but he figures they owe him for saving the world and all.

If he was the one who'd been injured, he wouldn't hesitate to do it himself, but working on someone else...

Stephen shakes his head. "Not a good idea. My hands, remember?" He holds up his shaking fingers, wondering if he'd even be able to grasp a suture needle for the length of time needed to finish the job before the pain set in. Shame he'd forgotten to steal a needle holder to go with the kit...

"No hospitals," Mordo says. "I would do it myself, but it's in an awkward spot. And, besides"—he smiles slightly at Stephen—"I'm not concerned about scars."

Stephen considers their options. The safest thing, of course, would be to take Mordo to the hospital. Maybe not Metro-General... They could go, literally, anywhere in the world. _Still so hard to get used to that_... Any anonymous hospital would be safer. He's already taking a chance having Mordo here—Wong or any of the others could come through the gateway at any time. And although he's been left more or less to his own devices here lately, with his luck, Wong will suddenly have some reason to come and find him. He can probably already sense Stephen fucking things up from all the way over in Nepal...

On the other hand, he's exhausted, and the thought of sitting in a waiting room while some med student botches the same job he could do in the comfort of the Sanctum… The safest thing, he decides, is to suture Mordo's wound upstairs where no one from Kamar-Taj will stumble into them. It's the easiest thing, anyway. And the scenario most likely to get him to his bed before dawn.

He'll figure the rest out tomorrow.

"Fine. I'll do it." He heaves himself to his feet, wipes his slime and now blood-covered hands on his robes. "Do you think you can make it upstairs?"

"Yes. I may need your assistance, however."

Stephen helps Mordo stand up—he's surprisingly heavy now that the adrenaline is wearing off—and they make their way slowly up the stairs to the second floor, the cloak helpfully pushing at Mordo's back. Stephen hesitates on the landing before selecting one of the smaller, and comfortably non-magical bedrooms, just one door down from his room. He'd been in there to dust and put fresh sheets on the bed during an uncharacteristic cleaning binge he'd been on last month.

He lowers Mordo down into a chair next to the bed, not liking how weak the other man seems. Something else is wrong. Something Stephen can't see. He wonders when Mordo will be ready to tell him what's really going on. How he got sliced up. Why he needs that gun...

Stephen angles the desk lamp so the light falls on Mordo's shoulder. Not great, but it should be enough to see by.

"Hold on a minute while I get some stuff."

Mordo starts to pull the blood and rain-soaked t-shirt off his shoulder, grimacing as the movement tugs at the wound.

"Just leave that—I'll cut it off."

"Right." Mordo lets his arms fall, clearly exhausted by just that small effort.

In his bathroom, Stephen washes the slime and blood from his hands. That shower will have to wait. He can't help catching his reflection in the mirror over the sink—he really does look terrible, and he'd almost forgotten about the slime. He scowls at himself.

_What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?_

He shakes his head. _There's really no good answer for that…_ So he decides to ignore it for now. Instead, he turns away, grabs the suture kit, some saline, gloves, gauze and bandages, a small bottle of lidocaine, and a sterile syringe.

Mordo is sitting with his eyes closed when Stephen gets back, looking like he's dozed off.

"Hey," Stephen says softly.

Mordo opens his eyes, watches as Stephen sets the supplies out on the desk. He picks up a pair of scissors and cuts the shirt away from Mordo's shoulder. In the light, the wound looks worse than it had downstairs, like something had torn through the skin.

"I'll need to flush this before I suture it, but I'll numb you up first."

Mordo just nods, eyes slipping shut.

"Any allergies I should know about?"

"No."

Stephen pulls the gloves on and draws some lidocaine into the syringe. "This might burn a little. Let me know if you feel faint again and I can stop."

Mordo barely flinches as he injects the drug around the edges of the wound.

"I'll just give that a minute to work." He re-caps the syringe—something that goes against everything he's been taught, but he might need it again, doesn't have many to spare—and sets it down, starts sorting the gauze pads. "So…" he says lightly, "What have you been up to lately?"

Mordo huffs out a laugh, glances up at Stephen. "I don't know if I should answer that question. Especially now that you are preparing to stab at me with a needle."

Stephen chuckles softly. "Well, it was worth a try." Later, maybe. They can talk later. He presses gently along the edges of the wound. "Any pain here when I do this?"

Mordo shakes his head. "Just pressure."

"Good. Let me know if this hurts." He picks up the bottle of saline and a stack of gauze pads, squirts a generous amount into the wound, catching bloody water as it flows out.

Mordo just watches him patiently.

"So…" Stephen tries again. "This relic you got into a disagreement over… What is it? What does it do?"

Mordo tips his head to the side, considering. "I'm actually not exactly sure what it does. However, I do know that it is dangerous. And that many have died trying to get it."

He pauses for a few moments, and Stephen knows he's deciding how much to tell him. "As for what it is… The relic is a small box, wooden, with elaborate carving on the top and sides. Or so I've been told… I have never actually seen it myself, only heard of it." He looks away again, and Stephen knows he's hiding something.

He drops the soaked gauze into the trash and strips off his gloves, throwing them on top—he really should have stolen more of those, he goes through them so fast—before tearing open the suture kit.

"If this thing is so dangerous, why do you want it?" He really doesn't mean to sound like an asshole, but he can't help it.

Mordo smiles again, clearly not offended. "I think we can both agree that some magic is just too powerful to be allowed loose in the world. To be traded amongst amateurs as a… a trinket. To be sold to anyone who can pay the price."

Stephen just hums noncommittally at that and pulls on a clean pair of gloves, picks up the suture needle and a pair of forceps from the kit. He adjusts the light a little with his forearms. Mordo tips his head back when Stephen steps close, giving him room to work.

"Try to hold still." If only he could follow his own advice…

But his fingers don't shake too badly as he takes the first stitch, pushing the needle through the edges of Mordo's skin. He manages not to tear anything or drop the needle. It's a little awkward tying a square knot again—even when he was practicing, he'd gotten to the point where someone else would always close up for him—but his hands remember what to do almost on instinct alone. He evaluates the first stitch critically. _Not too bad…_ He probably wouldn't yell too much if an intern had done it.

He lets out a breath and moves on to the next suture. "So it's here? In New York?"

"Hmmm?" He'd been quiet for so long that Mordo must have drifted off again. "Yes, the relic is here in New York," he says softly. "That's why I'm here." He sighs, glances up at Stephen. "I almost had it earlier tonight. But someone else got to it first..."

Second stitch done. "And now where is it?"

Mordo draws his head back a bit so he can see Stephen's face. "I wish I knew that..." He looks away, closes his eyes again. "The man who had it, he... disappeared. And I cannot go after him. Not like this." 

_Not like what?_ Stephen wants to ask. He knows Mordo's not referring to the wound on his shoulder—that's trivial. _The other thing that's wrong..._

Stephen works in silence for the next few sutures, letting the simple, repetitive motions clear his mind. When he's finished, he inspects the work— _not too bad_ , he thinks—and covers everything up with gauze and tape.

Mordo brushes his fingers lightly over the bandage. 

Stephen strips off his gloves and starts cleaning up the mess they've made on the table. He ends up just shoving everything into the trash—he's too tired right now to sort it all out. He rubs at the back of his head. "Uh, you should probably stay up here tonight, in case anyone comes through the gateway."

Mordo nods solemnly.

"And, uh, there's a bathroom two doors down on the left. There should be soap, a new toothbrush, and some clean towels in there, if you need those things. Try not to get the sutures wet. There's also some kind of alien slug living in a hole behind the toilet. Shouldn't be dangerous. I've tried catching it, but"—he shrugs—"I've been busy with other things."

Mordo smiles. "I'll try not to bother the slug too much."

Stephen nods, hesitating, then turns to go.

"And, Strange..."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

He just nods again and shuts the door softly behind him.

 

***

 

After his long-delayed shower—dried slime turned out to be difficult to wash off, like dog slobber—and one final obsessive check on the wards and the locks, Stephen stretches out on his bed in the dark, stares up at the ceiling.

Sleep won't come, as is so often the case these days. So he thinks, instead. He tries to imagine what life will be like when Mordo is his enemy.

He tries to picture the two of them fighting. Not the way they used to when he was at Kamar-Taj, but a real fight, for his life, maybe. Tries to imagine what spells he would use to stop Mordo if he had to. He figures that's the only way he'd stand a chance against him—he's the better spellcaster. Has been for a while... Mordo knows it, too. And he's smart. So he probably already has a plan in place for dealing with that.

Stephen's sure he'd lose to Mordo in a hand-to-hand fight—the man taught him everything he knows about fighting, after all. There's no trick he could pull that Mordo wouldn't see coming. Plus, he's a cripple. Stephen knows he would never have beaten him in any of their sparring sessions if Mordo wasn't holding back.

He heaves out a breath, turns onto his side so he can stare out the window at the rain. Still coming down hard, no signs of stopping. The cloak settles itself on top of him and strokes along his arm, comforting.

As much as he tries, he can't quite see it, can't imagine them as enemies, though that must be what they are. If not now, then soon. 

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he drifts off just as the rain finally sweeps over the city and out to sea.

 

***

 

A sound wakes him up way too early—something loud and annoying. _Phone_ , he realizes. His first impulse is to banish it to another dimension, preferably one filled with tentacles. Instead, he manages to paw it off the bedside table and into his hand rather than the floor. Then it takes way too long to swipe and answer it with fingers that have grown stiff and painful overnight.

"Hello," he croaks.

"Hey, Doc. Hope I'm not calling too early."

_Detective McAllister._ He blinks blearily at the clock on the wall: eight in the morning. Not early at all, actually. He should already be up. He's just exhausted after his trip. And last night.

Last night... _Mordo_ , he thinks. _Shit._

"No. I, uh…" He clears his throat. "Not too early. I just... I didn't sleep well. Last night. You know…"

He's rambling now. He pushes himself up against the headboard and tries to focus, force himself awake. If she's calling then she has something interesting for him. He could use a distraction right now. "What's up?"

"Got a case here that might be right up your alley. Well, a... colleague of mine does, anyway. Really weird shit. I mentioned that you were into that sort of thing and he asked me to get in touch. He's desperate, I think. You interested?"

"Yeah." At least he's awake now. "What kind of 'weird shit'?"

A chuckle—she knows him too well. "He didn't say too much. Just that it looked like some sort of animal attack. A murder. Upstate," she clarifies. A pause—he can practically hear her considering. "Must be a bad one. Rich is not normally the sort to ask for help. Old school, you know?"

"Difficult to work with?"

She blows out a long breath. "Yeah, he is. He's an asshole, frankly. You two will probably get along just fine... I'm surprised he called me, to be honest. But he's a good cop—I know he'd do anything to solve a case. So, if he's willing to bring in a wizard"—

"Sorcerer."

—"Yeah, that. So if he's willing to do that... It's gotta be very fucking weird."

"Text me his number and I'll give him a call."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll do that." Another pause, a long one. "How are you doing these days?" Her voice is softer now, gentle.

The last few times she'd seen him he'd been a wreck. Both of them had been, actually, by the end of it.

It took weeks to exhume all of the bodies hidden under the ground in the tiny graveyard at Hansen's Lake. Then more work, sorting out which were legitimately buried there and which belonged to murder victims. Even after all this time and all of the evidence collected, some still defied identification—probably runaways, the homeless, people they thought nobody would miss. And the kids—their tiny bodies discarded like trash, covered in dirt and sticks, and mud—they were the worst. And the feeling of their deaths— _fear, confusion, sadness—_ small voices still crying out for someone who loved them, someone who never comes... Stephen had stuck around as long as he could—maybe he felt like he owed it to the victims—but eventually it was all too much to deal with.

In the end, nearly the entire adult population of the town had been indicted on multiple charges: murder, kidnapping, conspiracy. It was the biggest case the county had ever seen, and it made Detective McAllister famous. Something, Stephen knew, that she considered both a blessing and a curse.

And him? He'd gotten over it. Gotten past it. _Mostly_.

He rubs a hand over his face. "I'm good. Doing better." He still doesn't really want to talk about what happened.

And she's smart enough to know he doesn't want to talk about it, too, but she has to ask. He knows she cares. "That's good, that's good." Silence for just a moment too long. "I'll, uh, text you that number then."

"Okay, thanks." There must be something else she wants to say to him, though, because she lingers on the line. And Detective McAllister never does anything without a reason.

"Hey, Doc?"

Here it comes. "Yeah?"

"Had some guys around here the other day, asking questions about you. Government types."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Said they were from the, hold on..." He can hear her shuffling papers around on her desk. "Joint Counter Terrorist Center. Had badges and everything. Ever heard of it?"

"Nope. What did they want?" He already knows, of course. He's been paying more attention to the news lately.

"Oh, you know... They had a lot of questions... Wanted to know who you were, how I knew you, what your connection to the Hansen's Lake case was. If you were, uh, enhanced in any way... had any special powers. Asked if I'd ever seen you do anything weird."

He can't help chuckling. "And what did you tell them?"

"The truth, or as close to it as I could." He can hear the smile in her voice. "That you were working for the mother of one of the victims. That you ended up basically solving the case for me. I left out some of the details about that part, and all the stuff about the monster, and your, uh, magic friends, of course. I mentioned that you'd helped me out on a few cases since then. I told them about the one with the book—the lost book, remember? —that one was pretty normal.

They were a little confused as to why a famous neurosurgeon suddenly decides to become a private detective, but... anyway..." He can practically hear her shrug.

"I just felt like I needed a career change," he says, wistfully.

She laughs out loud at that. "Try a little harder to make that sound less like bullshit next time. Then they might actually believe it. Anyway..." She's suddenly serious again, quiet. "They were smart, and they knew a lot. More than they were letting on. They had some pictures of you..."

"Good ones, I hope?" Keeping his voice light isn't easy. He can't help the small twinge of fear that curls up and settles in his guts.

"Oh, yeah. Real good. You look about nine months pregnant. They wanted to know how that was possible. And they wanted to know what happened to the baby."

"Easy." He shrugs to himself. "It's not possible. I just let myself go after the accident. There was no baby."

"That's what I told them." She sighs. "They didn't buy it, though."

"Yeah..." _Shit_. He really doesn't need this right now. Not when he has this thing with Mordo to deal with. He really needs to go check on him. He needs some time to figure out what to do...

"Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads up. Let you know they might be coming around."

"Thanks, Casey, for the warning. And I'll, uh, give your friend a call, see if I can help out."

"Appreciate it. And, Stephen? Watch your back."

Stephen stares at the phone for a while after she hangs up. The text comes about a minute later—a number and a name: Detective Richard García. He sends a short text to the number and gets another text back almost immediately with an address and a time.

And then he has a patient to tend to.

 

***

 

Stephen opens the door to Mordo's room quietly, not wanting to wake him if he's still sleeping.

The curtains are drawn, and it's dark and still inside. He can hear Mordo snoring softly. Still asleep, then. The cloak twitches nervously against his shoulders, and he stifles the urge to say something comforting to it.

He approaches the bed slowly, almost like he's sneaking up on some wild animal. He feels like an idiot, but he knows he's right to be cautious. After what happened the last time he'd invited Mordo into the Sanctum. 

Mordo doesn't show any signs that he's noticed Stephen's presence, however. His good arm is thrown up over his head on the pillow, mouth open slightly, chest rising and falling slowly in sleep. 

As much as he wants to just leave Mordo alone and let him rest—and give himself more time to decide what to do, he thinks—he does need to check on that wound. Worth the risk, then.

Stephen peels the tape holding the gauze back carefully and presses at the edges of the wound, inspecting it. The sutures he put in last night look good—sloppy as hell, probably leave a scar—but the swelling is minimal. Ragged edges lining up nicely. Everything looks fine so far. If they're both lucky, Mordo won't need antibiotics.

He glances up at Mordo's face for a moment. Still sleeping, not faking it. No way he'd let Stephen see him in such an undignified state—mouth hanging open, drooling on the pillow. 

_He doesn't look so dangerous now_ , Stephen thinks. _Not dangerous at all_.

He pushes the thought away and quickly tapes a new piece of gauze over the wound. He leaves two extra-strength Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table. He has something stronger if Mordo needs it, but Stephen suspects he won't. He knows the man is too stoic to admit that he might be in pain.

He pauses for a moment, considering every mistake he's ever made and how this one stacks up in comparison—bad, probably top five, maybe. Then he shuts the door and walks away.

 

***

 

Wappingers Falls, New York is like a lot of small towns in America—the old and the new competing for space and attention. The new highway studded with Super Walmarts and Home Depots and the old Main Street lined with brick buildings from centuries past, tiny mom-and-pop shops fading into oblivion. Victorians and four squares, surrounded by ranch homes from the 50s and 60s, surrounded by McMansions all moving out in concentric circles away from the heart of town. And, yet, it hasn't grown too far past its roots as a sleepy upstate village.

Stephen knows it's not a place accustomed to murder.

The address Detective García had given him turns out to be an antique shop in an old blue and white Victorian just off the old city center. The closest safe spot to open a gateway is an abandoned lot a few blocks away, overgrown with weeds and small trees. Stephen doesn't even mind the walk—the weather is pleasantly cool and he's early.

The cloak, disguised as a scarf, gives a disgusted little shudder against his neck. They'd been working on perfecting different ways to camouflage it, so Stephen can go out without looking too bizarre. The scarf shape had been a compromise they'd mutually agreed on after a protracted battle of wills.  _Still a little too red to be inconspicuous_ , Stephen thinks. But he'd had no luck convincing the cloak to change color. It's not so bad, though—paired with a coat, the scarf looks almost... _normal_. He wonders what they'll do in the summer...

Detective García is easy to pick out of the crowd of police and nosy neighbors lingering in front of the house—and not because he's the only Hispanic man in plainclothes in the group. It's the aura of quiet, calm authority that Stephen notices first—the man has obviously been a detective for a while. He can tell by the way his eyes never stop moving, never stop searching, assessing, judging. Even when he's speaking to a uniformed officer, he's only half-focused on the conversation, gaze roaming over the crowd. So, of course, he recognizes Stephen the instant his eyes settle on him and gives a small nod of acknowledgement. García motions to the two cops at the perimeter to let him through before they've even noticed him standing there.

García looks him up and down, open curiosity on his face. Maybe the detective was expecting something a little more exotic, given his profession.

"So you're the wizard, huh?" He holds out a hand, grips a little too firmly and too long for Stephen's liking.

_Alpha male type_ , he thinks. At least he's taller.

"Stephen Strange." The handshake finally ends. Stephen shakes out his hand, ignoring the small look of satisfaction on the other man's face. _Congrats for besting the cripple..._

"Traffic wasn't too bad, huh? Casey said you wouldn't have a problem getting here... Let's see... What is that? Two hours from the city? But I only gave you this address about an hour and a half ago..." García eyes him shrewdly.

"Nope, no trouble. Traffic was fine." Enough small talk. He didn't come here to be interrogated. "You got something you want me to see?"

García looks like he wants to press the point, but then he sighs and drops his eyes. "Yeah, inside." He turns and motions for Stephen to follow him.

_Must be bad_ , he thinks.

They climb up the wooden steps to the old, wrap-around porch. The house itself must have been a real beauty in its day, but everything has obviously been left to rot since then—paint peeling from the woodwork, trim decaying into termite dust, stained glass window panes held together with packing tape. There's junk shoved just about everywhere except a narrow path to the front doors—not trash, exactly, but Stephen wouldn't call them antiques either. Detritus. Debris, maybe...

"Careful here." García leads him around a spot where the deck has rotted out, leaving a gaping hole. "Forensics have already been over the place, but try not to touch anything."

They step up to the front door. There's only darkness inside, as far as he can see, but the feeling coming from in there...

_Oh... This is..._

He staggers a bit.

There's definitely something here. He reconsiders: was something here. Whatever happened here, it's already over, but it's left a strong impression. Magic—wild and strong. Not a spell, exactly, just energy. Left over from... _something_. Stronger than he's felt in a long time. The gravity of it almost knocks him back out the door.

He shakes his head and puts a hand against his temple to steady himself.

"You okay?" García's looking at him suspiciously again. "You sure you're up for this?"

_You called me_ , Stephen thinks, but he just says, "Yeah, I'm fine. Where's the crime scene?"

The man smirks at him. "Just through here."

Detective García leads him to what must have been the living room. Although now it basically looks like a hurricane has swept through, cleaning everything out as it went by. What furniture there is in here has been toppled and dragged or flung into a crude pile in the center of the room. Stephen can see empty nails and hooks on the walls, discolored patches of wallpaper where pictures and mirrors must have been hung before whatever happened... _happened_. He can feel the leftover remnants of magic in here, too. Dangerous magic, something big.

García turns a slow circle in the room, arms out. "Weird, huh?"

Stephen has to agree: it is weird. "Based on the rest of the house, I expected there to be slightly more shit in here."

García grunts in agreement.

The room is so bizarrely empty. Where are the pictures that had obviously been on the walls? Even the floors look scrubbed clean. He crouches down near a heavy armoire that lays on its side. Deep gouges in the floor clearly mark the path it took from the wall to its current resting place. Nothing makes sense.

"This didn't happen during a struggle. It would take at least two people to move something this big."

"I agree," García says. "Something else happened here." He's silent for a moment, considering his crime scene. "I brought a friend of the victim's by earlier, asked her if the Jacobsens recently cleaned this room out. And she said they hadn't—it was just as big a shitpile as the rest of this place. Not her exact words, but you get my point."

"Yeah." He nods. "So where did everything go?" That is the question, isn't it?

Now that he's gotten a better look, Stephen can see a few smaller objects wedged in between the pile of furniture near the center of the room—a metal vase, the broken edges of a wooden frame, an area rug tangled in the legs of a small table. 

Detective García has obviously noticed the same thing he has. "It's like everything's been sucked into this one spot right here." He taps a finger against his lips thoughtfully. "What do you think could've done something like that?"

Stephen shrugs. He honestly has no idea, but he could make an educated guess...

He gestures to the pile. "Was there anything under all of that?"

García barks out a laugh. "No. That would've been too easy. Whoever was here dug something out of there before they took off."

Now that he's mentioned it, it's obvious that's what happened. Stephen walks around the pile until he can see where some of the furniture has been pulled away. There's a little empty spot in the center of the pile. Something's been taken.

"It was small," Stephen says, almost to himself. "About the size of a shoebox." Small, but powerful. Something that could pull an armoire across a room. A magical artifact. A relic.

_Could it be? Shit._

Mordo arriving last night, the phone call this morning _…_ If this thing is what he thinks it is, there's no way those two events are a coincidence. And he doesn't really believe in coincidences, not when there's magic involved. Mordo said it was dangerous. And, whatever this thing is, it was strong enough to suck a 400-pound armoire across the room.

He looks back at García. "You mentioned a victim?"

García just stares at him, eyes narrowed, finger tapping against his lips again. He knows Stephen's holding something back. And he wants Stephen to know that he knows. _The man really is good at this_ , Stephen thinks. But eventually the Detective just nods and gestures down a dark hallway off the living room. "Patty Jacobsen. Just through here."

Stephen stops in the doorway—the feeling coming from inside this part of the house is screaming at every part of him to get the fuck out of here. He wrestles with himself for a minute, trying to control his breathing and curb any kind of panic attack. _Not now_ , he thinks viciously. _Not here._

Detective García waits patiently for him to catch up, apparently used to his sudden fits of paralysis.

Stephen steals himself against the nausea in his gut, recites a comforting spell in his head, and pushes forward, trying to ignore the look of speculation on the other man's face. The energy surrounding him brushes against the edge of his awareness like cobwebs.

It's so dark in here, he almost misses the marks on the walls. All along the walls. He reaches one shaking hand up to touch before remembering: _crime scene._

"Freaky, right?"

Stephen jumps at the sound of Detective García's voice—too close and loud in the dark—heart pounding. "Yeah," he manages, running a trembling hand over his mouth instead.

The claw marks in the walls are huge—four splayed fingers, easily sixteen inches across. Each claw has dug a furrow at least two centimeters at its deepest, tearing through wallpaper and gouging the plaster down to the lathe underneath. The marks run the entire length of the hallway, as far as he can tell, stopping and starting as whatever the fuck came through here tore at the walls.

And there's something else… Something dark splattered along the lower half of the walls and smeared along the floor.

Stephen crouches down to get a better look, expecting to see blood. Though, why they'd let him walk through potential evidence…? But it's not blood—too dark, too thick, and the smell is wrong.

"Is this…?"

"Mud," García says. "Yeah. But not from around here, apparently. Got the crew analyzing it and that's all they could really tell me so far. It's not mud from anywhere around here. There are traces of it back in the living room, too. Not as much, but some."

_What the fuck could have done this?_

Stephen stands up. _This is… well… he's not sure._ He rubs at the back of his neck.

García sighs. "Yeah. We have no idea either. Best guess… someone wearing some kind of bladed weapon, you know, like Freddy Krueger in those horror movies, with his glove. Or, it could be a grizzly bear. A muddy grizzly bear."

"It's not a bear," Stephen says slowly. He has no idea what it is, but he knows it's definitely far weirder than a bear loose in an antique shop.

García grimaces. "Yeah. Probably not."

He steps past Stephen and into what must have been a study. This room is also destroyed, but not in the same way as the living room. This looks more like a bomb went off. Everything in here has been torn to shreds—papers and broken glass litter the floor, furniture is upended, loose feathers from a pillow that was torn open, walls slashed in the same manner as the hallway. And mud... Mud everywhere.  _Not a bomb so much as, well… a bear_ , he thinks.

Stephen takes one step forward and stops in the doorway like he's hit a wall.

_Fuck._

_This room._ This is where the feeling is coming from…

A crumpled shape on the floor, surrounded by mud. He barely recognizes the thing before him as a body except that he can feel it.

_Oh god, he can feel it... Feel her screaming._

He closes his eyes and swallows. _Jesus._ He can't go in there. He just can't. There's no way he can make his legs move forward. It's that bad—the energy in here. He's never been this close to something so malevolent. Suddenly, it's too much.

Stephen can feel his heart racing, breathing turning ragged. He can feel Detective García watching him again, judging him. Probably regretting bringing this freak to his crime scene.

_Oh, god!_ He's actually going to have a panic attack, the first one in months. Right here, right now. In front of the Detective. _Fuck_ , he's dizzy. Can't breathe properly...

The cloak shifts slightly where it's wrapped around his neck.

He's not getting enough oxygen— _shit!_ —he's going to pass—

"Hey, man," García says mildly. "If you puke on the evidence, I'm gonna have to have words with Casey. Find myself a new wizard or something."

_For fuck's sake, get a hold of yourself!_

Stephen manages to huff out a shaky laugh. "I'm not… I won't…" he says, practically gulping down air in order to get the words out. 

"It's okay. Take a minute. Breathe." García's still using that annoyingly calm voice, like Stephen's freak-out is completely normal and he's just going to wait it out.

He continues, unhurried, "The Jacobsens have lived in this house, running their little junk shop, for twenty years or so. Far as I can tell, they never actually sold anything. But they had quite a lot saved up in the bank. Makes a naturally suspicious man like me wonder where the money came from..."

Stephen knows it's all calculated, of course, designed to distract him. It's working though—he can feel his body ramping down from the brink, heart slowing. He can finally breathe again.

García waits a few more minutes, until Stephen's got himself under control. "All right there?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. It's just"—he gestures weakly at the room—"what happened... It's, uh, left some bad shit behind."

"This case, man. I know." He smiles a little. "It gets me, too, like that. Sometimes."

Stephen can only nod in reply, grateful for the understanding even if he still feels like a complete asshole for losing it _. Maybe García's not such a dick after all,_ he thinks. 

"Anyway, if you think you're ready... This is what I brought you here to see. In here..."

"I'm good." He doesn't feel good, but he doesn't feel like he's going to fly apart anymore either. So he steps into the room to get a better look. _Christ_ , the scene in front of him might be worse than any other crime scene he's been to. Might be worse than Hansen's Lake…

Stephen has no idea how he's going to be able to open his mind up in here. Even using some kind of divination spell might be dangerous because he'd need to let his mental shields down for that to work. He's barely holding on as is, with everything he has focused solely on keeping this shit out.

Looking won't hurt so much, though, so he decides to try that. Detective García might just have to settle for his professional opinion, no magic involved.

The first thing he notices, aside from the body, is the very large magic circle on the floor— _correction_ —in the floor. He can see that the wood has actually been carved away and some metal—silver, most likely—has been inlaid in a complicated series of concentric rings and runes. And this is probably the most competently designed and executed circle he's seen so far. Everything looks correct—the spell should absolutely be working. The fact that he can feel nothing from it means that the circle's been damaged somehow.

"Can I get closer?"

García waves him forward. "Be my guest. Forensics has already been through here. We're just waiting on the morgue to come get the body."

Stephen steps as close as he dares. The energy is intense right here, near the body. Where she died. He tries to ignore the whispering.

_Focus…_

There's a spot, partially covered by mud, where the circle is broken—the hardwood floor is smashed and splintered, the silver inlay ripped out. Just that small break, and it was enough to destroy the spell.

And there's mud. A lot of mud.

Mud on the outside of the circle, piled up in little drifts along the outermost edges. A lot more mud on the inside, around and on the body.

_Patty Jacobsen_ , he reminds himself.

She's been literally torn to shreds. Almost nothing recognizable left of her. The only clue that the body used to be a woman are the pieces of floral-patterned fabric scattered around that must have once been a dress. Obviously, whatever clawed up the walls got to her too.

He steps around the circle, keeping his feet out of the mud and blood on the floor. Careful not to get too close, keep his mind closed off—he can feel the remnants of Patty Jacobsen battering against his thoughts, suddenly stronger, whispers scrabbling at him like fingers, trying to open him up, trying to get in his head. And he's not ready to face her. Not yet.

It's hard to concentrate like this. He shuts his eyes tight and thinks: _Wait, just wait. Soon. We can talk soon. And I promise, I'll help you._

And maybe he's just imagining it, but it seems to work. He can feel the wave of desperate sadness backing off, whispers growing quiet. He can think again. He heaves a sigh of relief.

_Thank you._

The mud pattern is interesting, he decides, so he focuses on that, trying to keep himself occupied. Mud around the edges of the circle, lining up just perfectly with the silver in the floor, more mud inside... Inside the broken circle...

_Oh... Well, shit._

Everything he'd seen so far, in the living room and hallway, had led him to believe this was some kind of accident—someone fucking around with a dangerous relic, something they had no business having—and unleashing an attack by some kind of monster, something supernatural. But this—the broken circle—that was deliberate. In the midst of the attack, someone had done that. A person. The murderer.

"It was working," he says out loud.

Detective García jumps a little where he's standing in the doorway. And Stephen wonders just how long he's been staring silently at the crime scene, acting crazy again.

"What was working?" García steps closer.

"The magic circle—it was working when she was attacked." He points down at the floor. "Look at the mud here. It's piled up right at the edges of the circle. Whatever was attacking her couldn't get through at first. The spell was keeping something out. Something that dropped a bunch of mud as it tried to get in." _Whatever it was..._ He still has no idea what kind of monster they're dealing with, what this relic might do.

"Okay." García nods, expression dubious.

"Look..." _How to explain it?_ "Magic circles can keep out, uh... supernatural threats. Magical creatures, spells, curses... But they're useless against anything physical. A person would have no problem crossing these lines. Or breaking them. Someone wrecked the circle after the attack began. Right here." He crouches down to point out the floor, the destroyed lines. "As soon as the circle was broken, the protective spells stopped working. And whatever was attacking was able to get inside. And it killed her."

García taps at his lip. "You don't think a person actually cut her up. You think it was some kind of monster."

Stephen hesitates, but then... the Detective _did_ ask for his opinion. As a sorcerer. "Yes. I do." García seems to take it well, so he goes on. "But this was still murder. It wasn't an accident. Whoever broke the circle knew it would kill her."

"Murder. Right..." García sighs, looks up at the ceiling. "And how the hell am I supposed to prove that? What charges could we even bring for this, huh? Deliberately breaking a magic circle? Provoking a monster attack? I wouldn't even know where to start with this."

Stephen smirks at him. "That's your job."

"Right. My job." He taps at his lip again, thoughtful. "Any chance you could point me in the right direction? Andrew Jacobsen is our current best suspect. Disappeared last night, right around the time this happened—no one's seen him since. My partner's absolutely convinced he did this—staged this whole thing to throw us off. But I don't buy it."

_"The man who had it, he... disappeared. And I cannot go after him. Not like this."_

Stephen shakes his head, blinks a few times, says, "This wasn't staged. It was real." Something's bothering him now. Something García said...

"Jacobsen. The husband... Why don't you think he did it?"

García shrugs. "Just a hunch. Doesn't make sense. They had a lot in their bank account, but he didn't take anything. Left his wallet here, too. This wasn't planned. Whatever happened here happened quick. If Jacobsen was planning on murdering his wife, I could think of a hundred easier ways to do it."

_Whatever happened here..._

" _Got into a small disagreement over a relic."_ Mordo's words from last night...

_Oh, fuck!_ The ragged wound on his shoulder... Not a knife, but a claw. How had he not seen it before? How could he be so fucking blind? Mordo had been here. Last night. He'd been here when she died...

"Uh... Hey, Stephen?" García's voice sounds like it's coming from far away. "You okay, man?"

Stephen realizes suddenly that he's been staring into space again, breathing hard. He tries to remember what they were talking about...

_Right_. Jacobsen, the husband. Why García didn't think he did it... _Did_ he do it? Or could Mordo have... Was Mordo really capable of something like this?

" _You have no idea... the things that I've done..."_

He shakes his head hard to clear it. He can't think about this right now. Not in front of García—the man is too good at figuring shit out. Stephen tries composing his face into a carefully neutral expression. 

"Or maybe," he starts. "Maybe Jacobsen knew you'd never be able to arrest him for something like this. Set up the whole thing to kill his wife with magic." Stephen's not sure why he's arguing for the husband's guilt. Maybe he just really doesn't want to believe that Mordo could do this.

García chuckles. "Hey, man, I'm not even a wizard and I can think of a ton of ways to kill someone that would be easier than this. I mean, couldn't he just make it look like she died of some disease? Or turn her into a bug or something?"

Stephen concedes the point with a tip of his head. True. All of that is true—anyone with the knowledge to build and power that circle would have been capable of something a lot more sophisticated than this. Which means Mordo would have been capable of something better, too. And this just doesn't seem like his style. It's overly complicated and too sloppy at the same time.

García says, "So... anything else you can tell me about"—he sweeps his arm around at the room—"all of this?"

Stephen glances over at him. He's been avoiding this part, dreading it. But, maybe now he has to do this. He has to know what happened here… What Mordo might have done. 

"Yeah…" He hesitates. García's already seen him lose it, so it hardly matters now. "Things might get a little crazy, though. _I_ might get a little crazy."

García snorts, but doesn't say anything.

Stephen goes on. "I might need you to, uh, snap me out of it if I can't… come back."

"Now you're scaring me, man."

Stephen chuckles. "Don't worry. I do this all the time." Not usually like this though. Never like this...

He looks back down at Patty Jacobsen. Or what's left of her. The whispers in his mind grow stronger suddenly, as if in anticipation. _Fine_ , he thinks. _Get it over with_.

As soon as Stephen opens his mind just a crack a maelstrom hits and she floods in, filling every empty space inside of him. And every part of him, every rational thought is swept away and subsumed by the shrieking voice that's suddenly in his head— _her voice_. He's lost in it all suddenly—can't remember what he was trying to do in the first place, or where he is. There's just nothing left but pure blind rage and fear. Despair…

He's vaguely aware of Detective García grabbing at him as he staggers, lowering him down to sit on the floor. He doubles over with his head in his hands, clutching at his hair.

_Get out! Get the fuck out!_

If he could pull the foreign thoughts out of his head, he would. He realizes he can feel his hands, remembers he has hands to grab with. _He's pulling at his hair,_ he thinks, _too hard_. His fingers hurt. He tries to focus on that—the pain in his fingers, the pain in his scalp—to try to push back the flood invading his mind.

_Stop! Please, please, stop._

She'd listened to him before, maybe she will again. He waits, breathing hard, almost afraid to move as she claws and screams at him.

_Please. I can't help you like this..._

The onslaught lessens by the tiniest degree, but it's enough for him to remember himself. Remember where he is… _Get it done_ , he thinks. Get it done so he can get through this, work on restoring his sanity.

_Patty, what happened last night?_

 But nothing coherent comes back, just an insane gibbering, screams of pain, loss, terror. And then… And then fear. _Fear of them. The monsters. They're here. They're killing her. And she can't stop it. She's dying. She's dying. Gods, please help her she's dying… It hurts so much! It's so dark. Andy! Andy, I'm dying…_

 And Stephen slams his mind shut like a door. He _can't_ … He can't handle this. Not again. Not like this… It's too much like the other thing… The other thing he's trying to forget…

_I'm sorry_ , he thinks. _I'm so sorry._ _I tried but I just can't…_

 

_***_

 

Stephen gets back to the Sanctum around five. The foyer is quiet again after he dismisses the hissing ring of sparks behind him. No rain here today, he notices.

He just stands there, listening to the familiar sounds of clocks ticking, too keyed up and too fucking tired at the same time. Too conflicted to make a move. He's absolutely wrecked, and the headache he can feel starting promises to be a real monster later. He wonders if Mordo is still here. He can't decide if he wants him to be gone or not.

After a few minutes of inaction, the cloak unwinds itself from around his neck and shakes itself out indignantly, snapping back into its normal shape and then floating, deliberately not facing him.

Stephen can't help chuckling in spite of everything. "Sorry, buddy. That's one humiliation you're going to have to get used to if you want to be a hero."

The cloak shrugs slightly but doesn't turn around.

There's a small creak from somewhere above them and Stephen looks up, sees Mordo at the top of the staircase, leaning against the bannister.

_Still here, then..._ He doesn't know whether to be relieved or worried.

"We need to talk," he says.

 

*** 

 

Mordo is still oddly weak so he sits on his small bed while Stephen stalks angrily around the room. 

Mordo tries to catch Stephen's eye as he paces goes back and forth in front of him. "Please, let me explain..." he says, holding out his hands.

"You were there!" Stephen stops and rubs at his neck as if that will make his headache go away, looks up, looks anywhere but at Mordo. "You were there when someone was murdered," he says, still talking to the ceiling. "And you lied to me about it. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

Mordo holds up a placating hand. "I was not there when she was killed, Strange, I promise you that. By the time I got there, she was beyond help. There was nothing I could have done to save her. And Jacobsen had the relic. I tried to stop him, but I..." He swallows hard, looks down. "I was not able to."

Stephen resumes his pacing, eyes flicking over Mordo's face on each pass. His sincere, familiar face.

_God, he wants so badly to believe him..._

"I did not kill her," Mordo says solemnly. "And I need your help."

Stephen finally stops, looks Mordo in the eye. "Tell me the truth then."

"All right." 

 

***

 

Mordo sets his cup carefully on the bedside table. Stephen can't help noticing the trembling in his hands. 

He'd gone downstairs to make some tea, bring that up whatever food he had in the kitchen. But, mostly, he'd needed to take a moment and get himself under control. Mordo doesn't seem hungry, anyway, has barely touched his tea.

"Jacobsen is a powerful sorcerer. Very powerful. He never trained at Kamar-Taj, as far as I'm aware. And, yet, he has extensive knowledge of the mystic arts. It is possible that he is quite old. Much older than he appears. And it appears that he has amassed his considerable knowledge over the course of several lifetimes of study. It is also possible that he is not from this world at all…" Mordo trails off for a minute, takes a very small sip of tea.

"His wife is"—he glances up at Stephen—" _was_ also an accomplished sorcerer. Together, they had established a fairly lucrative business selling and trading magical artifacts. Some of the objects they dealt in are mere toys—nothing to be concerned about. But some are real relics, with real power."

Stephen picks up his cup and takes a sip. The tea is still too hot and it's not what he really wants right now—scotch would be better—but he needs something to do to keep from fidgeting.

Mordo seems to be waiting for him to do something, so he says, "This relic you're after… What does it do?"

"Opens a small gateway to another dimension."

"A lot of things can do that."

"Ah, but this dimension…" Mordo grimaces at his tea, sets it back down. "It is not a place that is hospitable to human life—to any life as we know it. The… _creatures_ that reside there are…" He pauses, eyes unfocusing, shakes his head.

"Made of mud?" Stephen supplies.

Mordo looks up at him sharply, lets out a bitter laugh. "Are extremely dangerous," he finishes. "If they should be allowed freely into our world…" Mordo winces at the thought. "It cannot be allowed to happen."

Stephen's already seen the type of damage they can do. Mordo doesn't need to convince him that this relic is bad news.

"Tell me what happened last night." _Might as well get to the point_ , he thinks.

"I had received information that Jacobsen was preparing to sell this relic, that he already had a buyer ready and willing to pay his price. The sale was to take place today. I needed to stop him before it could go through.

When I got to the house, something had already happened. I'm not exactly sure what… Perhaps the box had been opened accidentally. The creatures were attacking the woman. There was nothing I could do to save her. I tried to intervene and was injured in the process." He indicates the wound on his shoulder.

"How did you fight off the mud monsters?"

"Jacobsen managed to shut the box, somehow, while I was distracted. With the gateway closed, the link between the creatures and the source of their power was severed. They… _disintegrated_. Jacobsen fled out the back door with the relic. I chased after him. And that is when he cursed me."

Stephen just looks at him, eyes narrowed.

Mordo nods, angry. "Yes. You've noticed that there is something wrong with me. I've been rendered weak, helpless. He cursed me. It is a spell I have only read about before, but never seen in use. Dark magic, ancient magic… A powerful spell…

He rendered me incapable of using magic, in any way—the spell basically prevents me from accessing any of the most common sources of dimensional energy. I am cut off. I cannot manage even the simplest ward, the simplest divination..." Mordo sketches a sigil in the air, but nothing happens. He drops his hands, frustrated. "That bastard has taken everything from me. All I had left..."

He looks at the ground, as if ashamed. "It's more than that, though. It's debilitating. After many years of using magic, I have become… reliant upon it. The curse has severely weakened me, as you have no doubt noticed.

My highest priority is retrieving the relic before Jacobsen can sell it. If he does so, we may never have another chance to contain it. And that is not acceptable. The relic is simply too dangerous. I failed last night. And I have no chance against Jacobsen in my current condition. It will be down to me... If that relic should happen to fall into the wrong hands…" His shoulders sink. "Gods, help us."

Stephen clears his throat. Mordo looks up.

"The magic circle…" Stephen prompts. That part still doesn't make sense to him.

Mordo looks confused for only half a second. "It had already been broken when I'd arrived." He smiles sadly. "Perhaps Jacobsen decided he no longer wished to be married…"

Stephen grunts.

_Maybe._ The whole thing still bothers him, though. _Why?_ Why would Jacobsen do that? Maybe it really had been an accident somehow. Maybe the circle had been inadvertently damaged in the struggle by Jacobsen or his wife. Or, perhaps, it had been damaged long before last night and Patty Jacobsen had forgotten that fact when she panicked, seeking refuge in the only place she knew...

And why had the box been opened?

Nothing about this makes sense right now. He needs more information. He needs to find Jacobsen, he realizes. And he needs to find this relic before anyone else gets hurt. Now that he knows about this thing— _what it can do_ —he can't just let it go.

_They_ need to find it, he amends. Because he knows he needs Mordo's help on this. As much as he can't quite trust him, he still needs him.

"Why come to me?" Stephen asks, although he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

"I need your help to find the relic." Mordo gazes steadily at him. "And I need your help to break this curse."

 

***

 

"There are two basic ways to borrow magical energy from another sorcerer. One way is to... take it by force." Mordo looks up at Stephen and there's a flash of something like guilt in his eyes.

"Which is what you've been doing," Stephen says sharply. He's figured that much out, at least.

The guilt quickly turns to defiance. "Yes." Mordo stares back, refusing to be cowed. "I have been, yes."

Stephen just nods at that. He wants so badly to ask him why— _why does he need to do that?_ —but now is not a good time to start a fight. He knows Mordo has his own reasons for the choices he's made, reasons Stephen might never understand.

Mordo waits, eyes searching Stephen's face for a few moments before he nods and continues. "The other way is to accept a gift, willingly given." He shrugs, then winces when it jostles his shoulder. "The latter method is preferable. For a number of reasons. Although, it also comes with its own set of complications...

My only chance to cure this is to borrow power from another sorcerer. Enough so that I can eventually fix myself, overcome the curse."

Stephen rolls his empty teacup between his palms. He can't believe he's seriously considering this. He wonders what Wong would say if he could see him right now. _Probably just slap him upside the head_ , he decides. He sets the teacup down.

Mordo must sense his indecision. "I won't— _I can't_ —take everything from you. Not this way. The transference of energy is gradual. And you can stop it at any time simply by putting distance between us. But… we will also be connected for the duration, so you will be in no danger from me."

_Oh, it gets better,_ he thinks. "Connected how?"

"The spell is a type of binding. If we go through with this, we will be linked, temporarily, to ease the transfer of energy. And even if I wanted to, I would not be able to harm you while we are connected. You will be safe." He looks back up at Stephen and his eyes are sincere. "I promise, Strange. I swear to you, I will not harm you."

Stephen wants so badly to believe it. "But you wanted to." He runs his fingers along his beard, mostly to give his hands something to do. "When you came here before... You wanted to."

Mordo looks away. "Yes. I did."

"But not now."

"No." He shakes his head. "Not now."

"And what about after? If I decide to help you? What happens after we fix this? Find this thing? What happens after that?"

"I can't make any promises about the future. I do not know what will happen. When all of this is over..." He sighs. "I was so angry with you… back then. I was so angry with myself. For so many reasons. But now… I've come to terms with… some things." He looks so desperately sad when he meets Stephen's eyes again, but there's just a hint of a rueful smile. He spreads his hands out wide. "It's complicated."

Stephen snorts. "Yeah." Isn't it always? He thought this would be easier—being a hero. Shouldn't it be easier to know what to do? "Right." He shakes his head. 

They sit in silence for a while.

Stephen finally jerks back in his chair. "All right." He drops his head into his hands, pulls at his hair. _God, why the fuck is he doing this?_ "This spell... to fix you... Tell me what you need me to do."

Mordo breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you for... helping me."

Stephen just nods in acknowledgment. 

Mordo pushes himself up higher in the bed, so he can lean against the headboard. Even that small effort leaves him breathless. "It should be relatively simple. We're already close. We're... friends. We've been friends," he amends. "So it will be easy to form the connection needed to transfer magical energy."

"Okay." It's hard to keep the fear and doubt out of his voice. But he's made a decision to trust Mordo and he can't back out now. He needs his help to find this relic—he knows he can't do it alone. And he's come to the conclusion that he just can't say no to Mordo, even if that makes him a fucking idiot. Even if they're not strictly on the same side anymore.

No going back now... "Whatever you need to do—it's fine. I trust you."

"You need to be close to me. We'll need to be in contact for it to work."

"All right." He moves carefully from the chair to the bed, close enough so they can reach each other.

"And I'll need your chest bare. Just your chest," Mordo adds when Stephen raises an eyebrow at him.

"Fine." He can do this. He sets his sling ring carefully on the bedside table—if he loses another one, Wong might actually kill him—then strips off his belts and outer robes and lays them carefully in a pile on the floor. He hesitates for just a moment before pulling his tunic apart at the front. Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. Finally, he looks back up at the other man.

Mordo meets his eyes. "May I touch you?"

"Yes." He tries to ignore how rough his voice sounds, watches Mordo reach out towards him.

A spark jumps through him at the first brush of Mordo's fingers on his bare skin and he flinches involuntarily, remembering what happened the last time Mordo had his hands on him. But this is not the same—there's no pain, just an odd buzzing sensation making his muscles tense. He thinks he must be imagining it, this feeling, but then he catches a familiar orange flicker of magic at the edges of his vision. 

"I... I thought you weren't able to use magic?"

"This is not mine. This is your magic." Mordo's eyes are closed right in concentration, brow furrowed. He moves his index finger carefully across Stephen's chest, drawing a complicated sigil on his skin. The lines glow brightly but don't burn. "The curse prevents me from accessing most sources of magic on my own, but otherwise I am still able to perform rituals. I am merely borrowing a little power from you to get this spell started." 

Stephen shivers at the contact. It feels... It feels like electricity racing through him, making his nerves vibrate and jump, like he's grabbed onto a live wire. He clenches his hands involuntarily.

Mordo's finger stills, but he doesn't break the connection between them. Surely, he can feel Stephen's heart thudding in his chest? They both sit silently as the lines fade, sinking into Stephen's skin like dying embers.

Mordo lets out a long breath. "That's done. Now we can start the transfer of energy." He pauses, licks his lips. "I'm told this part can be quite intense."

He can't help his nervous laughter. "Intense how?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before. Not like this..." Mordo sounds anxious now, too. He presses his palm flat against Stephen's chest and just holds it there. It's almost comforting—the solid warmth of Mordo's skin grounding him. Stephen relaxes fractionally.

Nothing happens for a minute or two—the time seems to stretch on forever—and then Stephen can feel the heat against his skin increasing, growing more intense until it's right on the edge of painful. That spark of electricity is back, pulsing between them—Mordo's hand against his chest as the conduit. He feels like a lightning rod, channeling all of the energy in the multiverse through his body.  _Magic_ , he thinks. _His magic_. More magic than he has ever used for a spell, pooling in his body and then passing into Mordo.

He sways slightly and Mordo presses against him more firmly, leaning into him. He feels suddenly light-headed and he grabs at the edge of the bed for support. The sensation is almost like the first creeping edge of a panic attack, overwhelming, though he doesn't feel afraid anymore.

"Hold onto my shoulder," Mordo whispers, breath harsh. He must be feeling it, too, Stephen realizes.

He grabs at Mordo's good shoulder and digs his fingers in as much as he's able, using the other man's solid form to ground himself. Warmth is rushing through his whole body now, and he drops his head forward, panting. He can feel so much magic being drawn out of him, flowing into Mordo through their connection, energy pulled out of him. He's like a live wire, humming with power.

_And_ , _God, it feels… It feels good._

The warmth is pooling in the pit of his stomach, and in his groin. He can feel shocks racing up and down his spine as if there's an electric charge running through him. 

_Shit_. He's suddenly hard. Very hard. _Is this supposed to happen?_

"Mordo…" he starts, uncertain.

Mordo just moves in closer, eyes half-closed, breathing heavily. And then suddenly he's too close, face blurred, and then his lips are pressed against Stephen's—Mordo's soft, warm lips—and it's like closing a circuit between them. 

Stephen jumps and gasps as energy surges through them. Then Mordo is opening his mouth and pressing against his and they're kissing. And it's hard and brutal and desperate. Stephen grabs at the back of Mordo's head clumsily and forces their mouths together harder, ignoring the pain as Mordo's teeth slam into his lips. He can't help it—he just needs to get closer. He knows that whatever the hell they're doing right now should not be happening. He knows the spell is messing with his brain, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything but this…

With two points of contact between them everything suddenly becomes too sharp, too intense, as the power slams through his body and every muscle tenses at once. His fingers are digging into Mordo's arms like vices but there's no pain even though there should be—his nerves are just too overloaded to process anything except euphoria. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a seizure… To be struck by lightning…

_Oh, fuck._

He's about to lose it, he's going to come, he realizes. Right now. He can't stop it. And Mordo's other hand is pressed against Stephen's crotch, his palm rubbing at his erection. And he hadn't even noticed that happening, can barely feel it now. Compared to everything else going on, it's barely a breeze in a maelstrom.

And then he _is_ coming, but his orgasm is so dim he barely registers it—just a tiny surge of sensation against a background too intense to be either pleasure or pain and, yet, is somehow both at once. He's vaguely aware of the water glass on the table flying through the air and shattering against the wall, the mirror over the fireplace tipping forward and crashing to the ground, the cloak flapping wildly against the side of his face. He can feel his spine snapping rigid, head thrown back and severing the connection of his mouth on Mordo's. He's afraid his heart might burst in his chest. His bones will break.

_He can't... Oh, god! He can't... Too much. It's too much!_

But then everything inside his head flashes into sparks of pure, blinding white. And the last thing he's aware of is every sound fading out into static.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that, uh, potentially triggering sex scene is in this chapter. Please, be warned! Also, some discussion of characters' sexual orientations. And some whump... Okay, much whump.
> 
> I feel a little bit bad that Stephen spends so much time being out of it in this chapter. I promise he will get to be awesome later...

Stephen wakes up to what is probably the third worst headache in his life. Fourth worst...

_Okay, top five. Maybe._

Everything hurts. Everything, everywhere. He groans and rolls over onto his front, trying to bury his face in the pillow, block out the light stabbing at him. But moving causes his fingers to flex, and the subsequent shriek of pain from his hands is enough to make him forget all about the headache.

 _Fuck_. They haven't been this bad since the first week after his accident. And, then, only when he'd found himself stuck between morphine doses.

He whimpers pathetically and rolls back onto his side, drawing his arms up and cradling his useless hands against his chest. This type of pain is the worst of an endless variety—a bone-deep ache that rises periodically to a scream of agony, but never recedes enough to grant any relief. He swallows back saliva as a wave of nausea rushes up, throat working as he tries desperately not to be sick in his bed.

He manages to lurch sideways at the last moment and vomit over the edge onto the floor. _Success_ , he thinks, head swimming. But his hands are now throbbing in time to the pounding of his heart, so that also sucks...

Someone is suddenly next to him. Or not so suddenly—apparently, he has no spatial awareness anymore. Someone rubbing his back. _The cloak?_

 _Mordo_. He'd forgotten Mordo was here.

"Strange." He tries to focus on Mordo's voice, rather than his hands, but it's hard. "Do you have any pain medication here? I could find only paracetamol. And that seems… insufficient."

He thinks about nodding his head so he doesn't have to speak, but that also seems like a bad idea—any further movement might jostle his arms. "Yes," he manages to croak.

He'd moved the prescriptions out of his bedroom after the Hansen's Lake incident, when the pills had become tempting for reasons unrelated to physical pain. Maybe it was a useless gesture, but at least he would have more time to consider what he was about to do if they were a few floors away. Since then, the dark thoughts had lessened, and he'd just forgotten to move them back.

"Base… basement. Cupboard. Over the sink. Oxycodone. And… Flexeril." Something else he's forgetting… _Oh, yeah_. "And ghosts... some ghosts down there... watch out," he gasps. And then he realizes Mordo probably already knows about the ghosts. He just... can't really think right now. _God, it hurts_. He's going to be sick again.

Mordo waits patiently until he's done dry heaving, warm hand soothing on the back of Stephen's neck. "I will be right back." Then the bed rocks slightly and he's gone.

 _Mordo seems alive again,_ he thinks randomly. _Also, not bothered by ghosts..._

Stephen drifts for a few minutes on a wave of pain, trying not to move or breathe too much. Beyond the agony of his hands, the rest of his body feels like he's been hit by a bus. Muscle strain, he realizes, after his seizure last night… Or whatever had happened.

What had happened… _Shit. Oh, shit._ His thoughts freeze, and then speed up. _Oh, god_ —its all coming back to him now... The things they'd done...

The things _he'd_ done with Mordo last night— _kissing him, fucking biting him, getting off with Mordo's hand on him_ —definitely crossing a line, making his bad decision into a worse one.

Before he can reach new, heretofore unknown depths of self-loathing, Mordo is back. _Just in time_. Stephen's grateful for the distraction.  _Don't think about it now. Think about it later._

Mordo sets the bottles down on the bedside table along with a fresh glass of water. His hand returns to Stephen's back, moving in slow circles, distracting him from the pain. Stephen decides to ignore the implications for now—it feels good and he'll take whatever he can get right now.

"Will you be able to keep these down?"

"Maybe…"

"I have a spell that reduces nausea, but I don't think I can manage it yet. Perhaps, you could…? If I taught it to you?"

"Can't. Sorry. Not… not like this." Sounds delightful, but his brain feels too scrambled to try. And, anyway, if he can keep the pills down for just a short time the nausea won't be an issue.

"How many of each?"

 _God_ , he wants so badly to have two of the oxycodone. Two would be heaven right now. But it's been a while since he's needed them, and he really can't afford to be comatose right now, as great as that sounds. "One of each."

Mordo twists off the easy-open lids and taps the pills out into his palm, then looks confused. _Ah_ , Stephen thinks, _the quandary of trying to give pills to someone whose hands don't work._  And it _would_ be awkward if Mordo had to shove his fingers in his mouth...

 _Shit_. Stephen's traitorous brain freezes up again at that thought. And then leads him right to all the other awkward things they could do. Or have done...

Mordo saves both of them from further awkwardness, though, because he figures it out—takes the cap off one of the bottles and uses that to tip the pills into Stephen's mouth, followed by some water. Only a little spills on the bed.

Stephen manages to choke them down past his gag reflex. Hopefully, they'll stay in his stomach long enough to do their work.

Mordo's hand is on his back again, which Stephen thinks is just fine. Awkwardness aside, it's fine.

He keeps the pills down. And after another interminable length of time, the pain begins to recede slightly—peaks of agony growing less intense until they start to fade into the background ache. He's getting fuzzier, too, drifting on a pleasant combination of opioids and muscle relaxants. Mordo's hand rubbing his back feels good. Soon, everything feels pretty good.

So he closes his eyes and thinks about nothing for a while until the drugs pull him down into darkness.

 

***

 

When he wakes again the light in his room is dim—nearly a whole day gone. So much for not being comatose...

He stares out the window, trying to clear the lingering haze of drugs from his mind. More rain coming down. A car alarm blaring somewhere down the block, probably the same asshole who still hasn't figured out how to drive his new Lexus. He figures if he worked at it for half a day he could come up with a spell to permanently disable the alarm. Probably not worth his time, though...

Eventually, the car alarm stops. The view from his window isn't great—just the alley behind Bleecker Street. He can't even see the storm really, just lightning flickering orange against the clouds and reflecting off the glass and metal of the buildings, in puddles around the dumpsters.  _Late in the year for thunderstorms_ , he thinks. Global warming, maybe? By October, the atmosphere really should be cooling down, settling...

And _on and on_... He realizes he's just avoiding thinking about what happened last night.

Not the spell, so much—that seems to have worked, based on Mordo's apparent recovery. No, what happened between them. 

Was he somehow responsible for what happened? He hadn't really thought of Mordo like that before. He'd always been attracted to women. Would have considered himself heterosexual, if he'd ever spent more than a second considering it... But then last spring happened... And he'd had those fucked up dreams. Dreams about Mordo... But he'd attributed that to being completely fucked up on hormones. Hormones his body wasn't accustomed to. He still doesn't want to think about that part of his life. And, since then, he hasn't had thoughts like that. Not really.

He tells himself he's been too busy to think about sex, any kind of sex, but he knows it's a lie. He doesn't want to think about it.

He felt like he'd been doing better lately, but maybe he's still fucked up...

And did Mordo think of him like that? If he ever did before, Stephen hadn't noticed any sign of it.

Of course, he has been known to be totally oblivious to things. On occasion... Christine had needed to point out the anaesthesiologist who had apparently been flirting with him for over a year. Although anyone desperate enough to persist despite a year of unrequited advances probably wasn't worth his time.

But Mordo...?

His headache is mostly gone, which is a good sign. He moves his arms first, experimentally. Sore, just a dull ache. Moves his fingers cautiously. Painful, but not terrible. Stiff, though—it will be a while before he gets his full range of motion back. Might need to be on the Flexeril daily again...

He's okay, he's better. Still tired, though...

About twenty minutes after he wakes, Mordo appears in the doorway. Must have been checking up on him at intervals during the day.

Stephen whispers, "Hey."

"Hello." He sits on the edge of the bed, not too close this time—a safe distance. "I presume you're feeling better?"

"Yeah." His voice still sounds like he's been strangled. "Better. Thanks for, uh... for helping me out." _And cleaning up my puke, and rubbing my back, and for the weird hand-job last night..._ But he doesn't say that.

Mordo nods. He looks like he wants to say something else, so Stephen just waits, stomach clenching in nervous anticipation.

"I'm sorry, Strange. If I had any idea that the spell would be so hard on you, I would not have asked you to help me."

 _Oh_. That's not exactly what he expected... "I still would have done it, though. Helped, I mean."

Mordo looks back at him steadily. "I know." And Stephen's not sure if he should be flattered or worried that Mordo knows he'd do just about anything for him. _Worried_ , he decides. It's a problem.

Mordo sighs, starts again, "Also"— _and, shit, here it comes_ —"I need to apologize for... taking advantage of you while you were... in that state. I should not have allowed my desires to... intrude."

"Your desires?" So it was down to Mordo too, then...

"Yes, my desires." He runs both hands down his face, and Stephen wonders if he's stayed awake all night to keep watch over him. He looks tired, but more like a man who hasn't gotten any sleep than one who's been cursed. "I knew that a connection would form between us. And I forgot to take into account how my... preferences would come into play. To put it delicately." He gives Stephen a lopsided smile.

"So, you're, uh... into men?" _Why can't he just say 'gay', damn it?_

Mordo's smile turns gentle. "I thought that was fairly obvious."

"Well, you know..." Stephen shrugs slightly. "I'm an idiot." 

Mordo chuckles, gestures vaguely. "I thought that was fairly obvious, too..." He looks down, suddenly serious again. "And I... also... have feelings for you. Feelings that… go beyond friendship."

 _Oh_.

"You're attracted to me?"

"Yes."

"Okay." _God, what should he say to that?_ "I'm flattered... It's just that I'm... I'm not really"—

"Gay?"

—"into men."

Mordo just smiles that sad smile again. "I know." He stares down at his hands for a moment.

Stephen feels like he should say something else. They should really talk about last night, act like adults. Acknowledge that something important just happened between them. _Shit_. He's never been good at discussing his feelings. Never been interested in examining that part of his life too closely. He can't even fidget properly with his hands all fucked up...

But then it's too late and the moment passes. Mordo looks around, as if he can't quite remember why he's here, in Stephen's room. His expression hardens. "We have work to do."

 _Oh, yeah—saving the world again_. He'd almost forgotten. "How are you planning on finding this relic?"

"I've got some ideas." Mordo glances over at Stephen. "They will have to wait until you can walk."

"I can walk. I'm good." _Now to see if that's actually true._.. He pushes his reluctant body up to a sitting position—Mordo slides over to make room for him—then to his feet. He feels a little light-headed, but his legs support his weight and he doesn't fall on his ass. _A good sign_ , he thinks.

Mordo still looks doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Just dehydrated. I'll be fine. So... the relic...?" 

Mordo stands up, too, picks up the poker by the fireplace and stirs the old ashes with it. "There's a bar near Queens that caters to practitioners of the mystic arts. I know Jacobsen frequents this bar. It's one of the places where he finds his buyers. And where buyers can find him." He turns back around. "I think we can find a lead on his whereabouts there."

Stephen glances at his phone to check the time—almost eight—sees one missed call from Detective García. No time right now, he'll have to call him back later. Stephen shoves the phone in his pocket and looks over at Mordo. "Okay. We should get moving."

"You need to eat and drink something first." Mordo looks him up and down, at his threadbare t-shirt and pajamas, and smirks. "You should probably get dressed, too. Robes are fine, but you should hide your cloak." He nods over to the chair it's currently lounging in. "It's too… _recognizable_."

The cloak stiffens at that, like it's not sure if it should be offended or flattered.

Stephen shrugs at it. "Sorry, buddy. Looks like you get to be a scarf again."

The cloak shudders and sinks slowly down into the seat.

 

***

 

The bar is seedy, but not in the usual way that bars are. It has all of the standard bar paraphernalia—long, worn wooden bar top, filthy floor, neon signs advertising Coors Light, and Budweiser, and Pabst Blue Ribbon, dartboard on a wall pockmarked with a million tiny dart-holes. And, yet, the decor in here is just slightly exotic: incense mingling with the scent of cigarette smoke, a huge mirror hanging behind the bar that doesn't seem to be reflecting the right room, a bottle on a shelf that looks like it might have real eyeballs inside. A set of those fake witch's legs that people stick in their front lawns at Halloween, hanging out of a vent in the wall. _Magic humor, perhaps?_

The place isn't too crowded—just a few patrons spread out at tables in the dark, mostly drinking alone. At least a few wearing robes. There's a definite stink of magic in the air. Stephen's getting better at recognizing the signs, even when they're subtle. And better at recognizing the people who practice—almost everyone in here is a magic user.

The bar, itself, is humming with magic. The runes and sigils carved into the walls, he realizes. A spell of protection. For the patrons? For the bar, itself? _Probably both_ , he thinks.

The most interesting thing, however, is how still everyone becomes the minute they walk in the door, like they're waiting for something to happen. Stephen thinks at first that it might just be because they're new, but he quickly realizes that all eyes are on Mordo—not him, just Mordo—following him as he steps up to lean against the bar.

The bartender—an older black man with a neatly braided goatee that hangs down to his chest, wearing a terrifying Hawaiian shirt—gives Mordo a slow, deliberate nod. A muscle twitches above his lip. He knows Mordo, obviously, and he's not happy to see him. He glances between Stephen and Mordo, brows furrowing, like he's trying to figure out how they might be connected.

He turns and pours two drinks without being asked, moving slowly and carefully. Sets one in front of Stephen, nods solemnly and says, "Master." 

Stephen's surprised for just a moment. "Uh... thanks." The cloak squeezes his neck as if to say _I told you so._

The bartender taps the second glass down in front of Mordo—a little bit spills out over the lip. He looks up, meets Mordo's eyes in a challenge. "What are you doing in here?" 

Mordo slides his glass closer, spins it between his fingers. "We're looking for Jacobsen."

Stephen can feel someone nearby startle at the name. Someone sitting out in the darkness. He takes a casual sip of his drink—scotch, cheap—grimaces, and twists around slightly to get a better look. _There_. A woman— _no, a girl_ —sitting by herself about fifteen feet away. Pink hair with dark roots, tattoos on her bare arms, black clothes. She can't be more than seventeen, eighteen, tops—too young to be in a bar. Bizarrely, she has what looks like a glass of milk in front of her. She catches Stephen's eye and then quickly jerks her gaze back down to the table.

Stephen keeps her in his peripheral vision, tries to focus on what Mordo and the bartender are talking about.

"Jacobsen..." the bartender says, like he's testing out the name. "He's been scarce around here lately. Heard he might've killed his wife."

"If I wanted to get in touch with him... To, say, purchase an item... How would I go about it?"

The bartender blinks slowly. "I'm not sure if he'd want to sell anything to you." 

The girl doesn't make a move, but she's nervous. She keeps glancing from the table in front of her, to the fire exit down the hall near the end of the bar, and then back at her milk. Stephen knows she's getting ready to bolt.

"Mordo," Stephen mutters, trying to get his attention. "Hey. I think—" Mordo holds a hand out to shut him up, too involved in his stand-off with the bartender to listen.

Stephen looks back at the girl. She's staring at him now. This time, she doesn't look away, just holds up her hand. Both Stephen and the cloak tense up at the same moment.

Then she snaps her fingers and all hell breaks loose.

 

***

 

In the chaos of every glass and window shattering at once, the pink-haired girl leaps up and races down the hallway next to the bar.

Stephen's after her a second later, not looking back, assuming Mordo will catch up to them as soon as he realizes what's happened. He slams through the back door, sees the girl sprinting through the alley. She nearly slips in a puddle as she races around a corner, but recovers quickly, picking up speed. He reaches the corner, almost slips in the same puddle, gets around it just in time to watch her tearing down the street. " _Fuck_ ," he mutters, and takes off again in pursuit. She's agile and quick. His legs are longer, though, and now that they're on a straightaway, he's closing the distance between them.

"Now," he pants. "Maybe now would be a good time... with the flying thing..." The cloak is still sulking apparently. Nothing to do but keep after her on foot, hope she leads them to Jacobsen somehow. Stephen wonders where Mordo is, if he's even behind them, but he knows they won't have a problem finding each other. Not now that they're connected. 

This part of the city is a mix of old storefronts, industrial buildings and warehouses, and older homes. The girl ducks between two run-down houses and vaults over a chain link fence behind them. Stephen hauls himself over gracelessly— _oh, to be young again,_ he thinks—and then drops to the ground when she suddenly spins and unleashes a ball of fire at him. 

" _Hey!_ " It flies over his head, harmless, but she's already ducking around the corner into another alley. " _Damn it_ ," he mutters, breath misting the air in front of him.

He picks himself up and rushes after her, but the alley is empty when he gets there. Nothing but the back porches of ramshackle houses, windows dark. Most of these must be abandoned. There's no way she could have made it to the end of the alley, so she must be in one of them.

The chain link fence is rattling again, and then footsteps are pounding up to him. He doesn't need to turn around to know it's Mordo. "What's happening? _Strange?_ Where is she?" 

"Shut up a second." He can feel something— _magic_ —coming from somewhere nearby. He spins around once, twice, trying to pinpoint the exact house, jogs up the alley a few feet and— _Ah, there!_ Collapsing porch, plywood covered windows, graffiti everywhere, two people inside, both magic users— _this is it_.

"Here. They're in here." The back door isn't locked or even attached, just propped up against the doorframe. Mordo shifts it aside and they step in. Dark in here, almost too dark to see. Stephen draws a quick rune in the air, blows on it to make a light. Cold in here, too—his breath swirls up in little tendrils. No one's lived here for a while. The room they're in is full of trash, but there's a path through it where it's been trampled down, and a cleared trail leading up the stairs. He holds the light out in front of him as they make their way up, trying to be as quiet as possible.

At the top, there's a sudden flurry of movement, boxes tipping over, and Stephen has just enough time to throw up a shield before another fireball races toward them. This one bounces off and lands on a stack of old newspapers and they burst into flames. Stephen quickly casts a spell to contain the fire and starve it of oxygen—one that he's used hundreds of times—and the flames gutter out to blue and then die before the whole place can go up.

Mordo runs past him down the hall to the door, but jumps to the side when a cloud of ominous black smoke pours out. He gestures with one hand and the smoke swirls up and dissipates. Mordo slumps down against the wall, just outside the door, gestures at Stephen.

He approaches cautiously and crouches down across from Mordo, back to the wall, breathing hard.

"Jacobsen's inside," Mordo whispers.

Stephen peeks around the door and a blast of magic nearly takes his head off. He ducks back down, panting. "We just want to talk!" He shouts. He can feel some kind of magic happening in the room, a spell being cast. They need to move.

Stephen glances across the doorway to Mordo, who gives him a small nod. He draws some shapes in the air that Stephen doesn't recognize, summons a little ball of swirling blue energy around his hand.

Stephen has just a moment to think, _spell, what spell...?_ And then they're rushing into the room. Mordo throws the ball of energy he's been holding at an older man in jeans and a sweater. _Jacobsen_ , Stephen realizes. The man brushes Mordo's spell away like it's nothing. When he raises his hands to cast something, Stephen hits him with a swirling mass of threads, tangling his arms together.

And then he has to conjure another shield as a burst of magic comes at him from somewhere else in the room. _The girl, this time_. The energy bounces off and digs a smoking crater in the ceiling. _A lot of power, but not much finesse,_ he thinks _._ She's getting ready to hit him again so he twists his fingers— _not too much, don't put too much into it, don't hurt her_ —and sweeps her off her feet with a burst of wind. She shouts as she goes down, but she seems okay. By the time he looks back at Jacobsen, he's already free of the threads.

Everything is happening so fast, he barely registers Jacobsen trying to cast some sort of spell by the back wall. Mordo throws something that looks like a ball of lightning at him and he bats it away easily, turns to face them.

Jacobsen flings up his hands and stacks of old newspaper piled around the room fly up in a cloud, swirl around Mordo until he's completely encased in yellowing newsprint. He falls to the ground, trying to tear his way out. 

Whatever spell Jacobsen is working, Stephen can feel it trying to take shape. He conjures and throws a web of orange threads just as Jacobsen turns back around. The man flings himself to the side at the last minute, but the web hits his outstretched arm, pinning it to the wall behind him. He doesn't bother trying to free himself, just waves his hand and throws a chair at Stephen's head.

The cloak, still dressed as a scarf, yanks him out of the way as the chair smashes into the wall behind him. " _Shit_." He raises his hands to cast another spell but a flash of magic from the side catches him off-guard and sends him sprawling into a broken couch in the corner. _Pink-haired girl_ , he thinks. _She's good at this._

The distraction gives Jacobsen enough time to free his arm and finish his spell. A shimmering hole opens up on the wall in the shape of a door. _A gateway_ , Stephen realizes. The graffiti on the wall was the outline, crude runes around the edge defining the spell. Jacobsen locks eyes with him for a second and Stephen sees nothing but fear. The man is absolutely terrified. _Terrified of_   _them_. Jacobsen steps into the gateway and yells, " _Mary!_ "

Pink-haired girl pulls herself up and runs straight for the hole in the wall. She's clumsy, though—the spell he'd used to knock her down must have been more powerful than he thought—and she stumbles at the threshold, reaching out to Jacobsen. She's almost through. They're getting away.

Stephen can feel strong magic beside him, much stronger than anything that's been thrown around so far. Too strong. _Mordo_.

 _Oh fuck._..

Mordo takes aim at the girl—Jacobsen's already safely through the gateway, but she's still not quite there, everything is happening too slowly—and Stephen realizes in a rush that there's far too much power in the spell. Too much to just stun or disable. Mordo means to kill her. 

He might have yelled Mordo's name—he's not sure—he knows that won't stop him. Stephen throws a shield up in front of the girl, his hands twisting desperately to form the right shapes, never tried one at this distance before. _Please work, oh god, please_... And the shield finally materializes at almost the exact moment that Mordo's spell slams into it, blue lightning colliding with orange in a shower of sparks. The explosion of energy shoves her hard through the gateway, but she's moving, she's alive— _thank god_ —not enough got through to hurt her. She sits up and looks back at him, eyes wide, just before the gateway shimmers and closes with a flash.

Stephen falls back, panting, exhausted. _So close, that was too close..._

Mordo rushes up to the wall. " _Gods, damn it!_ " He slams his fist into the plaster where they disappeared, shakes it out, then glares over his shoulder at Stephen. "We almost had them!"

He circles around to where Jacobsen and the girl— _Mary_ —must have been camped out, kicks at a sleeping bag, overturns a box of food onto the floor. Looking for the relic.

Stephen just stares at him.

Mordo goes back to the wall, runs his hands over the spray-painted lines. "This is a permanent gateway. It has a fixed destination." He crouches down to check something on the floor that Stephen can't see. "This one has a very short range—they can't have gone far." He stands up again, turns back to Stephen. "It's not too late. We haven't lost them yet."

Stephen just sits against the broken couch where he'd fallen, thinking, watching Mordo. _He almost... They almost..._

Mordo seems to realize that Stephen's not going to move on his own. He stomps over and pulls him to his feet. "Let's go, Strange. There's still time."

As soon as he's standing, Stephen jerks his arm away. "What the fuck was that?" he spits.

Mordo looks at him, appraising. "What was what?" His voice is quiet, cold. He turns away, walks back over to the gateway.

"That fucking spell. That would've killed her if..." Stephen tries to control his breathing, the rush of adrenaline making him sick, making his legs weak. Just thinking about what almost happened... "We agreed. We were just going to talk..."

"They would have told us nothing," Mordo says, dismissive. He won't look at Stephen.

"She was just a kid!"

"These people do not deserve your sympathy." Mordo finally turns around, shakes his hands in exasperation. "Don't you see? The only way to end the danger this relic poses, is to end those who would use it. Can't you see that this is the only way!?" 

He shakes his head hard. "I won't do it. I'm not a murderer."

"Yes, you are." Mordo stabs a finger at him. "You've killed before when you needed to. To save yourself."

 _This again_... "That asshole stabbed me in the heart, he would have helped destroy the Sanctum. Saving myself was just a bonus."

"And Kaecilius?"

"He's not..." He swallows hard. "He's not dead."

"Oh? And that's a great mercy, isn't it?" Mordo's voice drips with scorn.

He shakes his head again. _How did this get turned back around on him?_ Takes a deep breath. "No. No, it's not." He thinks about them—Kaecilus, the other ones—sometimes at night, when he can't sleep. Before the nightmares take him... "If I could go back and do it again, do it differently… I would. It was a mistake."

He looks around at the wrecked room in an abandoned house, Jacobsen and Mary's pathetic little campsite on the floor. Thinks about the fear in the man's eyes when he'd looked back at them. How Mordo almost... How _they'd_ almost killed a kid...

 _He's been such an idiot_...

"This is a mistake, too." He turns to leave. Mordo grabs his arm and spins him around. The cloak snaps up and whips him in the face. _Not too hard_ , Stephen thinks. _It's holding back for some reason..._

Mordo steps away, anger twisting his features. " _You_   _coward!"_ he snarls. "Don't you dare walk away from this, Strange. You want to pretend that you are a force for good? That you are willing to do anything to save this world? Well, _this_  is what it means. _This_ is what you lack the courage to do." He continues, voice growing quiet, "And this is why you will never be a hero." 

 _It's probably the wrong thing to say_ , Stephen thinks, _but it feels so good_ :"Fuck you."

Mordo punches him and he stumbles, almost goes down. He manages to catch himself at the last second. He twists around and Mordo is already rushing at him, arm cocked back to hit him again.

Stephen conjures a shield at the last second, pushes it at Mordo. His fist glances off in a shower of sparks. 

Mordo grabs at the front of his coat and shoves him, forcing him to stumble back. Stephen has a moment to wonder why the cloak isn't doing a fucking thing to stop this, before Mordo slams him hard into the wall. The impact of his head makes his vision go all dark around the edges. Stephen shuts his eyes, waiting for the next punch. But nothing happens. He can feel the other man's hot breath against his neck, the heat where their bodies are pressed together. Both of them are breathing hard. He opens one eye carefully, then the other. He can't really see past the side of Mordo's head.

His jaw hurts. He wiggles it experimentally back and forth—not broken, just sore. His lip stings. _What the fuck are they doing?_

"Are you going to hit me again?" he asks softly. 

Mordo huffs, lowers his head slightly, seems to sag against him. "No." At least he has the decency to sound ashamed.

"Okay..." Stephen manages. "Then—mmph", when Mordo lifts his head and kisses him hard. It hurts, but it also feels good. He tilts his head and presses his mouth to Mordo's, like he can't stop it. The pain in his jaw is already fading. His heart is racing. He hisses when Mordo bites at his split lip. And that somehow feels good, too.

Stephen shoves him away. _What the fuck is he doing?_ He doesn't want this... _No._ Not like this.

Heat is already spreading through his groin. And he doesn't want that, either... This is wrong. They shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not now. Mordo almost— _he can barely stand to think it_ —he could have killed that kid...

Mordo moves in again, pupils dilated like some predator in the dark. He presses his body back up against Stephen's, like he belongs there, says, "I need more."

 _That doesn't make any sense_ , Stephen thinks. He shakes his head, trying desperately to clear it. Nothing makes any sense.

"I need you." Mordo rocks his hips forward and rubs his erection against Stephen's. And, _fuck_ , that's good. "I want you."

Stephen lets out a shaky breath. "I'm not gay." It sounds pathetic, even to him.

Mordo just says, "I know." His eyes are black pools. He leans in closer until Stephen can't see him anymore. " _Gods_ , I want you so badly."

Stephen doesn't know what to say, what to do, so Mordo drags him down by the hair and kisses him hard.

After a few more breathless moments, they're both clawing at each other, desperate to get closer. Mordo reaches up under Stephen's robes to undo the buttons on his pants.  _Bad idea_ , he thinks, _this is a really fucking terrible idea._.. But then the buttons are already undone and Mordo is opening his pants and pushing his hand in, his fingers working past the flap in his boxers. Stephen pulls his mouth away and gasps when Mordo finally gets his hand on his cock. In seconds, he's so hard he's aching, trying to thrust up into Mordo's fist. 

There's not enough friction, not with Mordo's hand shoved down his pants. He whines a little in the back of his throat until Mordo pushes his pants down, wraps a hand around him and strokes him hard and fast.

 _Oh god_ , he thinks, _what's happening? What are they doing?_

Any last objections he might have had are swept away as Mordo slides down his body to his knees, licks him from the root to the tip, and takes his cock in his mouth. He mutters, "Fuck," and his hands fly up to Mordo's head. It feels so good he can't think, can barely breathe.

Mordo grabs the back of his pants and pulls them down farther, slides his hand up between his thighs. Mordo's tongue is doing something amazing to the head of his cock, leaving him totally incoherent. Stephen almost doesn't care when Mordo's fingers spread his ass cheeks, but then he pushes a finger inside.

 _Fuck, that hurts_. He doesn't want that...

"No," he rasps, pushing Mordo's hand roughly away.  

Then Mordo is pulling hard at his hip, pushing against the other one. Trying to turn him around, he realizes. Stephen shoves his back against the wall hard.  _That_ can't happen, not like this... Not here. "Fu—fuck no," he manages.

Mordo responds by growling in frustration. And then he takes Stephen's cock all the way down his throat. Stephen slams his head on the wall hard, raining plaster dust down on the two of them, making sparks bloom behind his eyelids. " _Jesus, fuck!_ " His hands scrabble in Mordo's short hair, clawing at his scalp. All rational thought obliterated by pure sensation.

Mordo pulls his head away, quick, sucks his own fingers into his mouth. Stephen groans, shaking, watching him. And then Mordo's pushing Stephen's thighs apart as much as he can with his pants around his knees, forcing him to slump down further against the wall. And Stephen just lets him do it because everything is too much and he can't think. _He can't._.. He knows what's about to happen, and he doesn't stop him.

Mordo pushes a finger into him again, pulls it out, then works another in alongside the first. Rough, hard, burning inside him. Too fast. It hurts, _it fucking hurts!_ Stephen tries not to jerk away, struggles not to push Mordo's arm down. He squeezes his eyes shut, instead.

"Wha... why are you doing that...?" Stephen gasps. He can't think—nothing makes sense.

_What the fuck are they doing?_

This isn't right. Something's wrong with him. With both of them...

He pulls weakly at Mordo's arm, but he can't dislodge him. And— _oh, god_ —Mordos knuckles are rocking into his perineum. He's panting now like he can't get enough air. The fingers inside him are working against his prostate, pressing too hard, but the burning pain is quickly giving way to burning pleasure. His legs are trembling, feet slipping against the ground, trying to hold himself up. And then suddenly everything tips, and it's all pleasure, the pain a welcome counterpoint to the tingling spreading through his body, like bitter with sweet. 

Stephen is dimly aware of energy gathering around them, familiar, dangerous. His hair is standing on end, goosebumps on his arms. A piece of wood leaning against the wall falls over, and the sound is like a gunshot in the empty room. Dust and trash sweep in little drifts across the floor, picking up speed...

_Oh, God, not this… Not again…_

" _Fuck!_  Mordo." He pushes at the other man, but he just sucks him down harder. "Mordo, stop…" He can barely get the words out now. " _Stop!_ "

His whole body tenses, and he fights desperately to put up his mental shields, trying to keep the power out.

Mordo can feel it, too. He lifts his head, digs his fingers into Stephen's hip to get his attention. "Don't fight it. You can't stop it." 

Stephen just shakes his head violently. A cardboard box slides across the ground, kicks onto its side. He can't speak right now—everything he has is focused on maintaining control.

"You have to relax. Just let it happen." How is his voice so fucking calm? "Stop fighting me, Strange." 

The pressure builds and builds until it's too much. He can hear glass shattering from somewhere.  _Shit_ , it's no use—he can't keep it out. He's going to kill himself trying. He feels like he's about to explode. Something has to give before that happens.

 _Hands_ , he thinks desperately, _don't grab onto anything..._

He gives up trying to shove Mordo away and braces himself against the wall to keep from falling. Opens his hands and tries to relax his fingers. He hopes it's enough. He can hear Mordo's voice saying, "Yes! Yes, like that," almost in triumph, and then his cock is once again enveloped inside that hot mouth. And, _fuck_ , that might be what brings him down...

And then it's more than too much... So he lets go, lets his shields fall, and all of that power is suddenly rushing through him and pouring into Mordo like water bursting through a crumbling dam. Mordo moans and shivers but he doesn't let go. _Maybe he can't_ , Stephen thinks.

He's losing track of what's happening, there's just too much sensation at once. Mordo moving his mouth up and down along his length, his strong fingers pushing deep inside him. They're driving him to a level of arousal that's close to agony. Stephen can't stop grinding down onto Mordo's hand, needs it harder now, now that he's surrendered to whatever this is. This thing happening between them. Mordo obliges by thrusting his fingers in faster, fucking him harder. It hurts and it feels so good. 

He realizes he's moaning pathetically, muttering, " _Oh god... oh fuck, oh_..." He's going to come in Mordo's mouth. There's no stopping it—he's being pulled over the edge. He can feel the other man groaning around his cock, and he's finally coming.

" _Mordo, please_... _oh, fuck..."_ He bites his split lip to stop himself.

His orgasm seems to go on forever, sparking from deep inside of him around Mordo's fingers, and stretching out until all of his nerves are firing and he's gasping for breath. Mordo swallows around him, taking everything he has, and pressing him into the wall when his legs are too weak to hold him up anymore. 

This time, he doesn't pass out. But he's left empty and confused as the energy recedes. He feels used up, leaning against the wall. He should be falling down right now, but Mordo catches him. He shudders violently when Mordo pulls his fingers out. His hands are shaking badly, his whole body is shaking, but he's not feeling any pain. He wonders vaguely if he's managed to avoid the magic hangover this time...

And then they're kissing again. Mordo's kissing him. He doesn't remember how or when that started—his body seems to be operating on auto pilot, outside of his control. A series of disconnected events, just happening at random. The realization that Mordo's mouth is on his just swims up into his consciousness after the fact. 

And this time it's soft, gentle. He opens his mouth, lets Mordo take the lead, do anything he wants to him. Whatever had driven them before— _lust? anger? magic? all of that?_ —is gone. He feels almost euphoric—whole body still tingling in the wake of his orgasm. If Mordo wanted to fuck him now, he would let him...

Mordo is rocking against him, languidly. He takes Stephen's shaking hand and guides it to his groin. Mordo's pants are open. _Had he done that? He doesn't remember..._ Stephen presses his palm to Mordo's erection. And he's so hard and so smooth, hot like blood. He wants to curl his fingers around it, really feel him, but he can't...

"I want to..." he says, voice rough. He shakes his head against Mordo's shoulder. "I just... my hands..."

Mordo holds his arms, guides him down to his knees, helping him so he doesn't fall over. He sways forward into Mordo's crotch, rests against him.

 _Okay_ , he thinks, _that's good_...

His face is hot, but Mordo's skin is even hotter. Even the way he smells is intoxicating. _Fuck_ , he feels good—drunk or high on something. Magic, probably. He knows when he comes back down from whatever this is, he's going to be a mess, but he doesn't care about that right now. Mordo just feels too good, smells too good. How had he never wanted this before?

"Gods, look at you..." Mordo's voice above him. "Here..." And his hands are so gentle on Stephen's face, sliding around the back of his neck to his bruised jaw, threading through his hair. Stephen closes his eyes and relaxes against him.

 _God_ , what's happening to him? He doesn't understand.

Mordo presses a thumb against his lips, careful where they've been split open, pushes it into his mouth. "Let me help you," he says, and slides his thumb all the way back between his teeth. Stephen just lets his mouth fall open, jaw slack. And then Mordo is guiding his cock inside, sliding in gently. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted you like this..." Mordo says breathlessly as he pushes his hips forward. And whatever Mordo wants, Stephen wants too. He's never done this before, but it feels good. Or maybe Mordo feels good…? He's having trouble telling the two of them apart right now, keeping their bodies, their feelings separate.

He wants to suck, but he can't close his mouth around Mordo's erection—Mordo's thumb is still wedged between his molars—and he's drooling. Mordo is rocking in and out of him slowly, hypnotically. Stephen feels like he's in a trance—his thoughts are so slow, disconnected. He moans when Mordo's cock bumps his soft palate. How is he doing that? He should be gagging, but he's not.

All of his senses shut down until his awareness is reduced to a single thread. A thread connecting the two of them, the feeling of Mordo in his mouth. Maybe he's aroused again, on the verge of another orgasm. Maybe he's just feeling what Mordo's feeling. There's no distance between the two of them. Not anymore.

When Mordo finally comes down his throat—moaning and gasping his name, his hips trembling—Stephen is already fading away.

 

***

 

The farther they get from each other, the more insane everything seems.

Once he's back in his bedroom in the Sanctum, alone, he can hardly believe that any of it actually happened.

Except that it did, he knows it did. His mind is screaming at him that _they just had sex_. And he's not gay, but he just had sex with a man. He gave Mordo a blow job. Mordo sucked him off while he had his fingers up his ass. And it was rough—he's sore as hell. That's proof enough that it was all real.

And he liked it. _He fucking liked it_. It seems almost impossible, except that it happened.

Maybe he's still really fucked up from what happened last spring, in some deeper way than he'd anticipated. His therapist insisted he might react to the trauma he'd suffered in some unexpected ways. That none of it was his fault, that it was totally okay if he couldn't be the same person he was before... But he'd dismissed that as just more of the bullshit shrinks use to assure patients their lives aren't really as shitty as they think they are.

Something about this damn spell, being near Mordo, the fucking relic, all of this—everything together is messing with his head. He needs to think... _He can't fucking think!_

 _Distance_ , he remembers. Mordo said distance between them would interrupt the transfer of energy. He doesn't want to cut him off completely, not when Mordo still needs help. But some distance might be good for both of them right now. 

 _Or they could try keeping their fucking hands off each other_ , he thinks, _that might help_...

 _But Mordo... Mordo almost killed that girl_. His tired brain keeps circling back to that, picking at it like a scab. He can't trust Mordo. He just can't. He's been an idiot. But they need to get this relic. He knows how dangerous it is, what it can do... He should go to Wong, talk to someone else, get an outside perspective...

All of the responsible things he should be doing, but all he can think about is Mordo's mouth on his cock.

He stares out of his window at the brick wall across the alley—no storm or car alarms to distract him this time—only his miserable reflection in the glass. The cloak floats up behind him and just lurks there until he snaps, " _What?_ " 

It gives a half-hearted shrug, sinks a little lower.

Stephen turns around and manages to choke out a bitter laugh. "Really? That's it? That's all you have to say? You have an opinion on everything I do. But _that_ was okay? _That?_ "

The cloak manages to look sheepish.

"You're supposed to be the responsible one, here."

He turns back to the window, hoping for some insight, maybe. Instead, he sees Mordo's reflection standing in the doorway behind him. Stephen's heart suddenly lurches in his chest, but he turns around to face him.

Mordo takes a few steps into the room then stops, hesitating. "Strange, I—"

"Don't," he warns. "Don't come near me right now."

Mordo backs off slightly, holds up his hands, like he's cornered a wild animal.

Stephen feels like one right now. He should really sit down—but his ass hurts and he needs to keep moving, so he paces back and forth near the bed. As far from Mordo as he can get in his small room. "I need some time to think about what happened. And I can't..." He scrubs at his face, frustrated. "I can't think when you're near me."

But Mordo doesn't leave, doesn't take the hint.

Stephen clutches at his hair, but that just makes his fingers ache. He rubs at his neck instead, blows out a frustrated breath and tries to keep his voice under control. "I need some time to think. Just give me some time. _Alone_."

"We don't have time. If they should escape with the relic..."

"Did you hear me? I said _get the fuck out_." 

"No."

" _What?_ "

"I know you heard me. No, I will not get the fuck out, as you so eloquently put it. We do not have time for this. We do not have time to deal with your emotional crisis right now. We need to act. So, _please_ , Strange—"

" _My_ emotional crisis? You're the one who almost killed a kid!" 

He can see Mordo struggling with himself for a moment. He clenches his jaw, then takes a deep breath. "I am sorry, Strange. Sorry for that..."

Stephen scoffs in disbelief. 

" _No,_ listen _. Please._ Just listen. I was wrong. And in the heat of the moment... I let myself succumb to rage. I was not in control of myself. What I did was not appropriate, and it will not happen again. I promise you." 

Stephen rubs at his beard. "Are we still talking about the kid?"

Mordo looks nonplussed at that. "I'm sorry...?"

"Nothing." Stephen shakes his head, waves him off. ""Forget it. Bad joke."

"Strange, please... I cannot do this alone..."

Stephen waves impatiently, squints his eyes to block Mordo out. "Yeah, yeah—I got it. Can't do it alone, need my help, end of the world… Just shut up for a minute."

He looks back up at Mordo, serious again, begging him to understand. "I want to help you. I really do. And I want to find this thing, too. But right now, I need to think. And I can't fucking think when you're near me. So… I'm going to go out there"—he stabs his finger vaguely in the direction of the door—" _somewhere_ and I'm going to find a bar—a real one this time—and have a drink. And when I'm done thinking, I'll come back and we can talk about saving the world again."

Mordo looks at the ceiling and sighs. But then he says, "Okay."

Stephen nods at the cloak and it settles on his shoulders. He rushes down the stairs, and then he's finally away from the Sanctum and he can breathe again in the cold night air.

 

***

 

He can already feel his mind clearing, and he walks aimlessly for a while just to put more distance between them. Lose himself in the city.

The cold air feels good in his lungs. Smoke from a passing cigarette feels good in his lungs. Even his sore ass is a good distraction. City lights blink on and flash and fade away. People pass him on the sidewalk, cars in the street—the city is always busy, even at this hour. All of the chaos around him, soothing his brain like white noise…

Normal people walking, driving cars. Thinking about their jobs and families and issues. They pass by him and just keep moving on through their normal lives, oblivious to everything out there that lives in the darkness, that wants to eat them. And that feels pretty good too—that they know nothing. He wishes he could still be a part of that sometimes. Back in the normal.

He has to push through a crowd of people waiting outside of a comedy club. But when he's through, someone is still too close behind him. He can feel the cloak getting ready for a fight and he pets it down. _Just some asshole_ , he thinks.

There's a tiny, sharp prick in his neck. He spins around to see what happened, and then there's nothing…

 

***

 

He wakes up slowly, feeling unusually blurry.

 _Magic hangover?_   _No_. This is different... 

 _Can't think, though, so something must be wrong_... The last thing he remembers is being pissed off at Mordo, and leaving the Sanctum... He remembers thinking he would have a drink somewhere. But he hadn't had that much, had he? Certainly not enough to feel like this... Had he even gone inside a bar?

When he can finally open his eyes, the bright light stabbing at him forces him to squeeze them shut again quickly. He eases into it instead, letting a little more blurry whiteness fill his vision with each careful blink. He's in a room, he thinks. It's hard to get a good look—everything is fuzzy. Everything is way too bright. He realizes that the room he's in is actually white and featureless, the light feels clinical.

_Where the fuck is he?_

He's sitting up, supported by something, but his head is lolling forward. When he tries to lift it, his neck feels oddly floppy. And he can't quite keep his eyes focused on any one point—his head keeps slipping sideways. He's definitely been drugged with something. 

_Why is he here? And why the fuck can't he move his arms?_

Something seems to be wrapped around him. Around his arms, maybe. They're in sleeves. His fingers, too, are covered by something. He pulls a little, but he can't seem to uncross his arms. He lets his head drop forward so he can see better. He's wearing something whitish, with straps—a straitjacket. 

Interesting. He feels like maybe he should be more concerned about this. But he's not. _Good drugs_ , he thinks.

Footsteps towards him, then his head is moving without his input. There are gentle fingers on his chin—a hand lifting his head up. And there's a shape in front of him, blocking out the white room. A person. Someone holding his chin up. Then more light stabbing into his eyes. He shuts them again and tries to twist his head away, but the hands keep him still, forcing his head back into place. Someone pries up his eyelid and the damn light is back. Way too bright, making tears well up and stream down his face. 

There are other sounds in here, he suddenly realizes. An odd thumping and rattling from somewhere off to his side. He can't move his head enough to figure out what it is, not with someone holding his face. And there are voices bubbling up into his consciousness. A soothing voice at first— _saying his name?_ — a woman's voice, very close to him. Coming from the person-shaped blob.

 _S_ o _meone talking to him?_

It takes a huge amount of concentration to try to focus on the sounds and turn them into words. It gets easier to think once the hands are gone and he can close his eyes again.

A woman's voice says, "He's stable" A pause, then: "Yes, it looks like it's working." Another pause—he can only understand one side of the conversation, but he can hear another voice somewhere farther away in the room—"About fifteen minutes, sir."

Then there's a pause that seems to stretch out forever. He slumps down in the chair, his thoughts peaceful, mind quiet in a way that it never really is. _He could get used to this…_

"Stephen? Stephen Strange?" A man's voice. _From somewhere behind him?_ "Can you understand me?"

"Yes." It takes him a few seconds to realize that he's said that out loud. His own voice sounds like it's coming from so far away.

"Good. That's good." The voice sounds approving. "I apologize for having to do things this way, but we just couldn't take any chances. Not with you."

 _Do what? What's happening? Why can't they take chances? Who the fuck are these people?_ Nothing makes any sense. But what comes out of his mouth is: "That's okay."

"Amazing stuff..." The voice sounds amused. "We really just need to ask you some questions. And then we'll let you go. Do you think you can answer some questions for us?"

He doesn't like the sound of this smug voice. He doesn't want to answer any questions. "Okay," he says. _Did he really just say that?_ He barely recognizes his own voice—flat with almost no inflection. _What the hell did they give him?_

That odd thumping gets louder for a moment. Metal rattling. _What is that?_ He tries to twist his head around to see. 

Someone snaps their fingers in front of his face, and he forgets about the sound. For some reason, this hand is really interesting. A man's right hand. Ring on the ring finger. Silver, ostentatious. Sleeve of a gray suit. Expensive.

"Focus, Stephen."

That's all he can do right now. Nothing else seems to matter anymore except the voice.

"That's better. Tell me"—and he can feel all of his consciousness focused in anticipation—"Your cape. Is it powered by magic or is it some kind of alien tech?"

That's... not what he was expecting. "Magic," he answers promptly, thinking _: It's a cloak, asshole._ _And where is it anyway? They were together when all of this happened, weren't they?_ It's hard to remember right now, but he's pretty sure…

He wants to ask about the cloak, but his mind won't form the right words, can't make his mouth say them.

"What does it do?"

 _This_ he can answer. "Flies. Almost, sometimes. Mostly floats. Takes care of me. Gets in the way. Does what it wants. Keeps me company. Sleeps with—"

"All right, that's good. That's enough." The man laughs. "I love talking to this guy..." He must have said that to someone else because it doesn't make any sense...

"It's fine, by the way—your cape. We'll give it back when we're done here."

There's a single, angry sounding thump this time. _The cloak_ , Stephen finally realizes. _But where is it..?_ He manages to twist his head far enough to see a plastic and metal dog crate on the floor—the kind they use on airplanes—something red inside swirling around. _The cloak? Did these assholes really put the cloak in a dog crate?_

"Focus, Stephen." Something blurry is suddenly in front of him. "What's this?" The man is holding his sling ring in front of his face.

 _Brass knuckles_ , he thinks, but he says, "Sling ring." _Damn it._

"Is this what you use to teleport?"

 _Is it teleporting?_ Maybe… "Opens a gateway." These people seem to know a lot already. _Have they asked these questions before?_ He wonders vaguely how many times they've done this, and who else they've done it to.

The man turns the ring over in his hands. "Interesting. How does it work?"

Another one that's simple to answer honestly. "I don't know."

"Who's in charge at Kamar-Taj right now?"

"Wong."

"What's his full name?"

"I don't know."

"How long has he been with Kamar-Taj?"

This is easy—being interrogated. "I don't know."

"How many other sorcerers are there?"

"I don't know." _They picked the wrong guy to kidnap_ , Stephen thinks.

The man blows out a frustrated breath, but it seems to Stephen that he's been expecting these non-answers. "Let's try something different. What's your position at Kamar-Taj?"

"Master of the New York Sanctum."

"How long have you been with Kamar-Taj?"

"Almost two years."

"How long have you been Master of the New York Sanctum?"

"About a year."

"Are all of the Sanctums fully functional right now?"

 _How much do these people know already?_ He hesitates for just a second. "Yes. I think so. Maybe." He knows they're still calibrating the final spells. Does that count as 'fully functional'?

"Have you ever had any contact with any of the Avengers?"

 _What an odd question… Why would he?_ "No."

"Have you ever had any contact with Steve Rogers?"

 _Who? Oh, yeah_. "No."

"Have you ever been to Asgard?"

 _What the fuck?_ "No."

"Have you ever been to any other dimensions?"

"Yes." Admitting to that makes him feel guilty for some reason, like he's just confessed to having an STD. He wonders if tentacle slime counts...

The questions stop for a few minutes. He can hear the man's voice somewhere behind him, talking to someone else—a woman. Then he steps back in front. Stephen tries to lift his head so he can see the man's face, but the light is directly behind him, and he's still too fuzzy to focus. Everything is just a gray and white blur anyway.

"What is your primary purpose as Master of the New York Sanctum?"

"To protect the Sanctum. To protect the world from inter-dimensional threats." He doesn't even have to think about that one.

"And are there a lot of those? Inter-dimensional threats, I mean?"

"Yes."

"Who is the man staying at the Sanctum with you?"

Stephen shifts in his straitjacket uncomfortably, tries to stop his traitorous mouth from opening. "Mordo," he says.

"Who is he to you?"

How can he answer that when he doesn't even know? "A friend." Is that a lie? He's not sure...

"Is he a sorcerer too?"

 _Is Mordo still a sorcerer?_ That's a hard one… Stephen's not sure what he is anymore. And he's not sure exactly what Mordo's goal is, he just knows it isn't good. He needs him, though. Right now, he needs him...

"Answer me, Stephen."

"Yes," he says finally. He really needs to get out of here. There are a few spells he can do that don't require his hands. He tries to recall the words he needs for them, but his thoughts slip away as soon as he tries to focus on something. He just can't think straight. _Fuck._

"But this Mordo… He's not a sorcerer at Kamar-Taj?"

"No." Despite the drugs, he can feel panic beginning to flare up in him. He tries yanking his hands out of the sleeves, but only succeeds in wrenching his aching fingers.

"Hey, _hey!_ " The man snaps his fingers again and Stephen settles, breathing hard. "You don't like me asking questions about him, do you?"

"No." Stephen can hear just the edge of emotion returning to his voice. _Drugs must be wearing off_ , he thinks.

"Okay, okay. Calm down. I just want to talk to you for a minute, and then we'll let you go. Do you think you can do that? Pay attention for me?"

This smug asshole is really starting to piss him off. "Yes," he grates out. It's close, though—he almost managed to say "fuck you" that time.

"Okay. That's good." There's a metal scraping sound—the man pulling a chair closer, Stephen realizes. He sits on it. He's so close now that Stephen can almost see his face. Almost, but not quite...

Then he's talking again. "We're going to release you in just a few minutes, but I'm going to let you remember this time. And I want you to remember this conversation. Because we want you on our side. _Hell_ , we might need you on our side." The man leans back, relaxed, like they're just chatting.

 _This time?_ That doesn't make any sense, unless...

"I'm sorry we have to do things this way—I want you to know that." _He doesn't really sound sorry,_ Stephen thinks. 

"But I want you to know that we are not your enemy. We want all the same things. We want to keep people safe. That's our job. And I know you're a good man, Stephen. I know that's what you want too. To keep people safe. Isn't that right, Stephen?"

It's close, but he manages to say nothing. He wants this asshole to stop saying his name like that. Like they're friends. Mordo doesn't even use his first name... And they... they... tonight. _Shit._ It's all coming back to him now _._

The drugs really are wearing off fast...

The man doesn't seem to mind his silence this time. "And that's why I'm telling you this..." he continues. "Because, one day, I think we could work together."

 _Not a chance in hell_ , Stephen thinks. _No fucking way._..

"So, the next time we meet... I want you to remember what we talked about tonight. And that I let you remember."

The man nods. Their conversation must be over. Someone steps up close to Stephen's side, reaches for something behind his back, and then...

 

***

 

"Strange."

Someone's shaking him a little. Then pulling at him, trying to make him sit up. He decides to ignore it for now. He's too tired to care—he could probably sleep through anything right now...

"Strange. Wake up."

He knows that voice. _Mordo_. It's such a comforting sound that he decides to go back to sleep. Just for a little while… a short nap until the drugs wear off. Mordo's with him, he reasons, so everything must be okay…

" _Strange!_ " Mordo suddenly digs his knuckles into his solar plexus. Hard.

"Ow! God damn it!" He shoves the hand away. "Stop."

He blinks up at the blurry face above him. Mordo's face above him, looking concerned. "I'm fine," he mumbles. "I'm fine."

"You don't feel fine." Mordo taps the side of his head. "In here. I can sense you through our connection, remember?"

"Right." He'd almost forgotten that particular side-effect.

"What happened? You stumbled in here a few minutes ago and just lay down on the rug. The cloak came and found me."

Mordo helps him sit up. He's a little dizzy, but whatever he's been given is wearing off quickly. He rubs a hand over his sore face then down to the new sore spot on his chest, winces. "What time is it?"  _God, his throat is dry._

"I believe it's a little after three in the morning. You're not injured?"

He must have been held for about two hours, assuming they'd grabbed him before he'd even gotten to the bar. He can't quite recall what happened directly after he left the Sanctum until he'd started answering questions. _Good drugs_ , he thinks again. 

"I'm fine. Thirsty." His head is already clearing. And now he's starting to get pissed off. "Some government operatives drugged and kidnapped me. Asked me a lot of questions. You ever heard of the Joint Counter Terrorist Center?"

Mordo's face goes still. "Yes, I've heard of them. What sort of questions did they ask?" 

And did Mordo sound nervous? Stephen shakes his head, trying to remember. "Seemed random. They wanted to know about politics at Kamar-Taj. About how relics worked—they asked about the cloak."

Mordo blinks at that, but says nothing. 

"They said they wanted me on their side. Told me they were letting me remember what we talked about 'this time'." He waits, letting the implications of that sink in. 

Mordo's face tenses and he nods in understanding, but he says nothing. Stephen knows there's definitely something Mordo's not telling him. He can practically see Mordo decide keep it to himself. _Must be something big_ , he thinks, _Mordo's not usually so obvious_.

Mordo helps him struggle to his feet. Stephen sways a little, leaning too hard against the other man. It feels way too good, and he wants to grab him and kiss him.

"We should focus on our current problem," Mordo says, and Stephen thinks, _which one?_

  

***

 

Later, they're sitting up in Stephen's room balancing plates toast and scrambled egg on their knees. Cups of coffee on the floor. Not ideal, but Stephen doesn't want to take any chances if someone comes through from Kamar-Taj. He feels like two days without a visitor is really pushing it.

It seems like the two of them have come to an uneasy truce after the events of the previous night. They'll work together to find the relic. And Mordo will try not to kill anyone. And after they find it... Stephen's not sure what happens next. Not sure if Mordo disappears again. Or if they become enemies. Or something else... Not ideal, he supposes, but the best compromise they can come up with right now.

And as for the other thing... They still haven't talked about it. Stephen's not sure if they should.

They'd had no luck finding a place that would deliver at four in the morning, so Mordo had gone out to pick up some food at an all-night grocery store. While he was out, Stephen had taken a bath to soothe all his sore parts, then a shower to wash off the dirty bath water. The slug had come out of its hiding place behind the toilet, slid up to the edge of the tub, and just stared at him with its creepy stalk-eyes while he soaked. Stephen had just stared back, too tired to try grabbing the thing—and what would he do with it if he caught it? Eventually, the slug had gotten bored and slunk back down to its hole. And Stephen wondered again what it could possibly be eating...

Now, after getting clean, he feels almost human again. The coffee is helping with that.

Mordo had also gone by the abandoned house again to check for anything they might have missed while they were... _occupied_.

"We have nothing." Mordo stabs angrily at his eggs, spreading them around the plate. Stephen notices that he's still barely eating. "The other side of the gateway has been erased—they knew we'd find the exit point, obviously. And they were careful to leave nothing behind that we could use. Nothing we can track them by. No blood at all... Not a trace..."

_They left nothing behind, except..._

"Oh. Shit." _Of course! Why hadn't he seen it before?_  He grins slowly at Mordo.

"What is it?"

"I know how we can find the box."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this up. The semester is starting soon, and I have to teach again. So I kind of have to, like, prepare lectures and stuff... Ugh. But I'm glad to be back. Definitely rather be writing fanfic :)
> 
> I ended up dividing the last chapter into two because the, uh, porn section got a little long (Seriously. This is, like, epic for me. There's almost no plot here. I am not kidding. I have no idea how this happened...) so there will be one more update after this. 
> 
> I've gotten pretty tired of looking at this, so if you see an egregious error or something doesn't make sense, please let me know and I'll be in your debt.
> 
> Also, thanks so much for all the wonderful comments and discussion so far--they make me super happy!
> 
> *slightly spoilery chapter warnings at the bottom*

Stephen's phone vibrates in his pocket, he pulls it out and checks the screen. Detective García.

Just after six in the morning, must be something important. Maybe García's checking up on him, in which case, he really doesn't want to talk to him. Or maybe there's been a break in the case—he _does_ wantto talk to him about that. But he's pretty sure the cops haven't found Jacobsen yet, and he's not sure how anything else might help him find the relic.

Either way, he's too busy to talk right now. Busy breaking into Detective García's crime scene.

He feels just a little bit guilty about that. But he really does need to take another look around Jacobsen's house. Without García, this time. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket.

The house is dark and quiet at this hour. And it would also be peaceful, he supposes, except for the current resident. The thing that used to be Patty Jacobsen pounces on him as soon as he steps out of the gateway. He can feel her excitement— _finally someone who can hear her!_ Then a flash of recognition when she remembers him, and desperation suddenly claws at his mind, sharp and terrible.

_—Please, please please, PLEASE—_

He's exhausted and his shields are weak and battered. The pain in his head is intense as he struggles to reinforce his defenses, but he's got almost nothing left. He can feel her testing the brittle edges of his mind, trying to find a way in. Painful little jabs at the edges of his consciousness, tentative at first, and then she's filling his head. Not with words so much as wanting. _Please give her another chance. Please..._

_—Please! Please I'm better now. I'm calm, I'm calm. I'm so much better. I won't hurt you again. I promise! I'm calm, I'm calm, I'M CALM! I'M—_

The voice rises to an insane screech and he finally manages to shut her out, desperate to preserve his sanity. " _Fuck_ ," he mutters, wincing.

Most of the 'ghosts' he's encountered so far don't last this long, fading out just a few hours after death. But some—the very young, magic users—stick around for a long time. The ghost in the basement of the Sanctum must have been a powerful sorcerer when he was alive. He's been haunting the place for a long time. Stephen's wondered lately if that will be his fate, too—hanging out in the dark between the washer and dryer. Forever. Something to look forward to...

Patty Jacobsen obviously had some talent. And she's certainly persistent. He can't really blame her, even though she's making his job a lot harder than it has to be. He can already feel another headache coming on.

He rubs at his eyes. Which makes his fingers hurt. Can't win, apparently.  _God, he's so fucking tired._

He closes his eyes, instead. "Could you just...shut up?" He doesn't know why he's snapping at a crazy ghost. Probably because he's also gone insane. Or, maybe, he's just tired of everyone messing with his head.

"Just shut the fuck up for a minute, okay? Stay out of my way for a little while so I can get this done? And I promise we can talk. You can tell me what you wanted to tell me the last time I was here. I'll let you tear into my brain as much as you want, just… _please_ , give me a break, okay?"

He feels a little bit guilty taking out his issues on someone who was recently ripped to shreds by mud monsters, but he's too tired to care.

Amazingly, she seems to take the hint and the pressure in his brain backs off. He can still feel her nearby, but she's giving him some mental distance. He breathes a shaky sigh of relief, nods at wherever she is. "Thanks. We'll talk soon. I promise."

The inside of the house is far too dark still to see much of anything—the weak pink light of dawn barely reaching past the windowsills. There's a clock ticking somewhere, maybe upstairs. Otherwise, the house is strangely silent. Stephen realizes that he can't hear the normal hum of electricity and appliances. The power must be off. Was it like that the last time he was here? Maybe the police shut it off... He honestly can't remember.

He'd conjured his gateway in the empty living room—he can see a large dark shape in the middle that he remembers is a pile of furniture. Probably pulled toward the box by the differential pressure between dimensions when the gateway opened. That's his current best theory, anyway.

Stephen conjures a tiny light, blows on it until it's only as bright as the flame from a single candle. The sun may be rising, but he doesn't want to take any chances being spotted. And a light suddenly turning on in an abandoned murder-house might look fairly suspicious. The little light is all he needs, anyway. It's enough to see by. And he remembers his way around.

He's ready this time for the leftover energy from whatever happened here to assault him again, but it's already much weaker. There's only the barest trace left, like a bad memory. At least one point in his favor... Stephen takes a deep breath and moves slowly down the hallway, stoops down under a set of claw marks, next to a small splash of mud—actually dried dirt now. This is what he's come for.

He takes a little jar out of his pocket and scoops a few teaspoonfuls of dirt into it. Should be enough for what he has planned. He twists the lid on and tucks it back into his robes, smiles to himself, remembering...

A sudden flash of Mordo's face when Stephen had told him about his plan. The way he'd smiled and tilted his face toward Stephen—a universal gesture that couldn't be interpreted in any other way. He knew Mordo wanted to kiss him. And Stephen wanted... He's not sure what he'd wanted at the time.

 _Focus_ , he thinks, shaking his head. He thought he'd feel better once he got here, once he put some distance between the two of them. But even a hundred miles away from the Sanctum, he still can't stop thinking about Mordo.

 _Damn it._ He feels scattered, like his brain is being pulled apart, trying to chase down too many different angles at once. Sleep-deprivation has always had that effect on him—breaking his typical laser focus, making him stupid. One of the many reasons he hated being an intern... He can't afford to feel like this right now, too much is at stake.

The cloak gives a little squeeze against his shoulders and then a twitch. Asking him what's wrong...

He pats the edge of it, runs his hand down the well-worn fabric. "I'm fine. Just... confused." Sad that he's confessing to an article of clothing, but the cloak really has become his closest friend. And maybe that's sad, too, but this is his life now, apparently. His best friend is a sentient cloak and he shares his bathroom with a magic slug.

Still, it feels good to talk to someone. "I don't know what to do, and... I'm probably fucking this up. Actually, I know I'm fucking it up." He rubs at his eyes again. _Jesus, he needs to sleep for about four or five days..._

He can feel the cloak waiting for him to continue. He's not sure how he knows that it's listening, but he does. Might as well lay it all out.

"It's Mordo... this thing between us. I don't know how much of this is real and how much is just... magic. I've never felt like this before. Not with, uh... another man." Saying it out loud sends a rush of heat through him. _God_ , it's even hard to talk to the cloak about this. 

"But I've never been bound to another person, so... that could be part of the problem. Maybe I've just got my wires crossed or something. And I'm worried that I'm making a huge mistake trusting him. Or that I've already made a huge mistake... That I'm about to make another one. It's complicated." He shrugs. That was fairly incoherent. "You're a piece of fabric, so... this probably makes no sense to you. Humans are idiots, though. You know that, right?"

The edges of the cloak sway a little in reluctant agreement.

"So, what do you think I should do?"

A quick comforting squeeze around his shoulders.

Stephen manages a smile at that. "Yeah, I thought so." He gives the cloak one more pat. "Good talk." 

He straightens back up, brushes his hands off, hesitating. Now that he's here, he should probably take another look around. This is still bothering him, nagging at him. _What happened here..._ Everything about that night makes no sense. _Less sense_ , now that he's thought about it for two days. He keeps coming back to the broken circle, the relic, the mud monsters. Mordo, here that night.  _How did all of that happen?_

 _Leave it,_ a small part of him whispers _. Leave it alone._

He can't, though. If there's something he doesn't know, he's got to figure it out. He's never been the type who just lets things go. It's a major character flaw. And it will probably be the thing that finally gets him killed.

Anyway, he'd just promised Patty Jacobsen he'd listen to her. Maybe he can avoid that unpleasantness for a few more minutes. 

But where to start...? He could spend hours just searching through the piles of junk in this house and never get anywhere. He doesn't have hours to spare. And, chances are, the police have already taken anything worth finding.

A divination spell, maybe. Tricky things, but useful as magic that can be done without a lot of advanced preparation when you just need to know something. But what does he need to know? That's actually the hardest part—being precise enough to get the spell to work while also giving it enough freedom to gather some truly useful information. 

So... what does he want to know? _Where the box is?_ The mud will do that. Something else, then. What happened here that night—that's what he wants to know. 

He doesn't really have a good starting point in mind, so he decides to be as vague as possible and let the magic do most of the work. He closes his eyes and pictures the relic, well... what he imagines it looks like, since he's never actually seen the thing. If his spell is worth a damn, just focusing on the  _idea_ of the relic should be enough.

And Patty Jacobsen. He concentrates on how she'd looked that day— _blood-covered, clothes and flesh torn open, red muscle, yellow fat peeking out, completely destroyed—_

Stephen can feel a disturbance in the air nearby as _something_ reacts to his thoughts. A framed picture jumps off the wall and shatters on the floor, shockingly loud in the quiet house.

"Shut up," he mutters.

 _What else...?_ Oh, yeah.

 _Mordo_... Stephen pictures his face first, his clothes, the way he moves. _Mordo's voice, his laugh. The way he smells, the way his mouth tasted..._

He shakes his head. Yeah, that's... probably not helping with the spell. 

_Mordo here, then, in this hallway. Mordo walking down the hallway into the room with the circle in the floor. The room where Patty Jacobsen died._

That should be enough to start with. He pushes his hands out in front of him, brings his palms together. The movements of his fingers aren't exactly correct, but he's found that magic can be surprisingly flexible. He hasn't yet found a spell that couldn't be adapted to work around his disability.

Familiar magic sparks easily between his hands, flashes and fades out. A moment of anticipation, and then he can already feel it working: a bizarre tugging sensation in his head, pulling him—he turns around in place, trying to pinpoint the exact direction—back down the hall towards the front door. 

When he reaches the foyer, the feeling points him upstairs. He has to step carefully around miscellaneous junk the Jacobsens were apparently storing on the staircase—boxes of paperback books, another full of Christmas decorations, a basket of yarn with a pair of knitting needles stuck in it. 

He keeps going until he reaches a room at the end of the hall, steps inside. The master bedroom obviously. It's shockingly organized in here—neat and tidy, bed made. A lot of books, stacked precariously on shelves and tables, but he's not really in a position to criticize anyone for that. 

He walks slowly into the center of the room, allowing the spell to guide him, letting his eyes just drift around until—

 _There_. A dresser on the far side of the bed. 

He steps up to it, closes his eyes, reaches his hand out. And picks up a business card. The second his fingers touch the smooth paper, he knows this is what the spell was leading him to. 

He turns it over in his hand. Plain white, heavy stock paper. A name on the front: Everett Ross. Followed by a number. Washington DC area code, he's pretty sure—he'd memorized them back in high school. And a series of letters: JCTC.

 _Oh, hell_... These assholes again.

The card can't be a coincidence... Why would the spell lead him right here if there was no connection? He's absolutely sure he cast it correctly, and it _felt_ right. He knows they're interested in magic users. And Jacobsen fits that description—he's probably pretty visible too, if he's out there peddling magical artifacts. 

 _Still_... He needs some time to think about it. Not here, though.

Stephen puts the business card back on the dresser. He doesn't want to disturb Detective Garcia's crime scene any more than he has to, and the broken picture downstairs is already pushing it.

He sighs and turns around to face the ghost of Patty Jacobsen, which has been lurking behind him, waiting patiently.

"Fine," he says. "Just… try not to break anything this time." He drops his battered shields and lets her in.

The feeling of her fumbling around in his head is like claws scratching at his brain. He has to fight the urge to push her back out, control all the instincts telling him that this is a dangerous assault. He grimaces and breathes as slowly as he can through his nose, tries to focus on not reacting.

He can hear her voice—just random words, stray thoughts—as she tries to figure out how to speak to him and keep from pouring everything out at once, distil her feelings and memories down into something coherent. Without killing him, he hopes.

— _I can do this, I'll show you. Something happened. Something important. I need to show you. I need your help, please. I can do this. I want to show you_ —

 _And then FEAR..._ Fear and pain so terrible and overwhelming that he can't breathe… He staggers against the bed. The cloak flutters out and keeps him on his feet.

— _The monsters! They got in! They're killing her, they're tearing her apart. She's dying! Andy! Help me please! PLEASE! I'm dying_ —

And then the feeling suddenly lessens. "Holy shit." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, swallows down bile and a familiar metallic taste. _Blood_. Fuck, his nose is bleeding.

— _Sorry, so sorry. I'M SORRY! No! Not that! Please, listen! Not that. Something else. I want to show you something else. Something that happened before. Please listen. A sound. I heard a sound. It was so loud. The sound—_

And then he can hear it, too. A bang. Loud enough that even the echo in his head makes his ears ring in sympathy. He clutches at his head, rubs his ears to chase away the sudden pain in his eardrums.

"Is that it? That bang?" He's definitely got a headache now.

— _Yes! The sound. I heard it. Before I died, I heard it. What is it? What does it mean?—_

Stephen can only shake his head, more confused now than he was before. He has no idea what it means.

 

***

 

When he gets back to the Sanctum, Stephen realizes he's out of salt.

"What sort of Sorcerer runs out of salt," Mordo muses. He takes a small sip of his coffee, grimaces at it. The last cup from their third pot of the night. Actually well into the morning, now..

They're back in the kitchen again, where they'd started the search, after looking through various closets and supply cabinets around the rest of the Sanctum turned up a number of interesting and potentially useful items, but no salt.

"This sort of Sorcerer, apparently." Stephen slams the last cupboard in frustration. "I used it up for some experiment and forgot to buy more." He rubs at his sore head. The Tylenol he'd taken should be working by now...

When he looks up, Mordo's grinning at him.

" _What?_ " he snaps. "I don't cook a lot."

Mordo nods slowly, takes another deliberate sip of his coffee. "I can see that," he says.

"Too much salt isn't good for you," Stephen adds, feeling petty.

Mordo chuckles.

Stupid to forget it, though—he really only needed two things for this spell: mud and salt. Another clue that his brain isn't in top form. 

 _There's got to be some way to just conjure the things you need_ , he thinks. _Didn't they have something like that in Harry Potter?_ He'd let a date drag him to one of those a few years back, though he can't really remember much at all about the plot—they'd been too busy making out like horny teenagers. Should've paid more attention to the movie, has more relevance to his life at this point...

"They have salt at Kamar-Taj," Mordo suggests. "You could just walk through the gateway and pick some up."

Stephen thinks about it. If he goes to Kamar-Taj now, where it's the middle of the night, Wong will be awake—because he's always awake when Stephen's trying to avoid him—and he'll want to talk. And if they talk, Wong will figure everything out. Because he knows everything and Stephen can't seem to keep any secrets from him.

"Can't risk it," he decides. "I'll just go buy some." He knows a good alley behind a corner market—overflowing dumpsters, always empty, perfect spot to conjure a gateway in the city. 

He picks up his coat and the cloak practically jumps around his neck, obviously eager to go out again. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes. You might want to stay upstairs until I get back." Just thinking too hard about Wong might be enough to conjure the man, and he doesn't want to take any chances, not when they're right on the cusp of finishing this thing.

Mordo nods and pours the rest of his cold coffee down the sink. "I'll go hide."

 

***

 

The market is ridiculously crowded at nine in the morning on a rainy Friday. 

Stephen finds what he needs quickly—they only carry smaller-sized containers of salt, so he debates for a minute before grabbing three—and then gets in the excessively long line. There are at least ten people ahead of him, shaking out umbrellas or just dripping on the floor, most of them holding one or two items. But there's an older woman up near the front wearing a plastic bag on her head with a basketful of crap and a fistful of coupons. One cashier, of course. Stephen groans. He's never been more tempted to shoplift than he is right now.

The line inches forward at a glacial pace. Someone bumps into the back of him and then chuckles.  _Asshole_ , Stephen thinks. He turns around to glare.

The man behind him in line is shorter, dressed in a moderately expensive gray suit. Still dry. Roundish, lined face, large nose. Salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. It doesn't suit him, Stephen thinks. The man meets his eyes steadily and gives him an odd smirk.

The cloak taps him once on his chest under the coat. Stephen ignores it.

 _Does he know this person from somewhere?_  He doesn't look familiar. Stephen turns away slowly, deciding he's too tired to start something right now. The cloak gives him another tap, harder this time, almost a jab. Stephen mutters, " _quit it_ ," under his breath, looks around to see if anyone noticed him acting nuts. No one seems to care. Thank god for New York...

He finally reaches the front of the line and pays for his salt, but by then the steady soaking rain has turned into a torrential downpour.

 

***

 

He jogs to the back of the alley hoping he can open a gateway before he's completely soaked, almost fumbles his sling ring into a puddle trying to get it out of his pocket.

"Stephen Strange."

He turns around. The asshole from the line is standing near the entrance to the alley, black umbrella in hand, water pouring off the edges.

 _Fucking great_ , he really needs this right now...  A former patient? Someone from the hospital? He'd be shocked if anyone from back then actually recognized him. He's dressed like a homeless person right now.

The man approaches casually, stops in front of Stephen, close enough that the rain pouring off his umbrella is now soaking into his boots. Stephen scowls down at him. The cloak writhes against his neck like a snake.

"Everett Ross." The man holds out his hand. Stephen ignores it, keeps staring at his face. He has to wipe the rain out of his eyes to get a better look. He's sure he doesn't know this person, but his voice is familiar. 

"Sorry. Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested." _God damn it_ , he's beyond soaked. He turns to go, tucking the cloak farther under his coat to at least try to protect it from the rain. He'll just have to find another alley...

"I'm not selling anything, Stephen. I told you before... I want you to remember."

_Oh. That's why he sounds so familiar..._

Before he even registers what he's doing, Stephen lifts his hand and sends the man flying back against the brick wall. Energy crackles and spits in the damp air. The umbrella flies out of Ross's hand and spins off down the alley. 

Stephen stands facing him, breathing hard. _God_ , he's so tempted to try that spell again. With a little more power this time...

Ross picks himself off the ground, brushing uselessly at his now-wet suit. He pushes his hair back into place, slicking it down. "We both know you won't hurt me. But I don't like relying on human nature, so... I have several highly-trained snipers ready and waiting for my signal. Or if I should become incapacitated in any way."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No. Not at all. It's simply a safety measure. I've learned that those are necessary when dealing with people like you. But I think we'd both prefer it if you didn't have to spend the next hour or two unconscious. Hell of a hangover, I'm told..."

"Fuck off," Stephen says. He doesn't have time for this shit.

Ross smiles. "If I wanted to, I could have you locked up in a place you'd never escape from. Keep you drugged 24/7. We have the means. And we've done it before." Ross pauses to let that sink in. "But that's not what I want."

"What _do_ you want?"

Ross walks over to his umbrella, picks it up and inspects it for damage. He shakes the water out and gives Stephen a pointed look. "I've already told you. I want you on our side." 

Stephen can't quite contain a bark of incredulous laughter. _The fucking nerve of this guy._.. "You really need to work on your recruitment technique. Because you suck at it." He turns to walk away again. "The answer is no. In case that wasn't obvious."

He almost makes it out to the street. Ross has to raise his voice to be heard over the pouring rain. "Technically, you're breaking the law—operating without any oversight or authorization. I could have you brought in right now. The only reason you're still out here is that I know you're not dangerous. Not yet. That could change on my say-so."

Stephen turns around to stalk back over to Ross, stand over him. He's already soaked, and he's pissed off. "Now _that_ was definitely a threat." 

Ross doesn't seem intimidated at all. "You're right. It was."

Stephen shakes his head, stalks around in a small circle just to have something to do. Ross's cool demeanor is really starting to get to him. He wants to clench his hands into fists, but he can't. 

"Tell me this, then... How many times have you drugged and kidnapped me?"

"How many times have we brought you in for questioning, you mean?" That smug smile is back. "Last night was the fifth."

Stephen tries to keep the shock off of his face, but it's hard. _How could he have missed this? Why hadn't he noticed anything?_ He steps back a few feet.

Ross seems to be able to read his mind. He shrugs. "You were pretty distracted. And we have some very effective drugs at our disposal. We can wipe significant portions of your memory—erase the hours before and after an event. Enough so you probably just thought you'd been sleeping.

The first time we brought you in was due to your... pregnancy. You forced our hand, basically. We'd had you under surveillance for a while at that point. But we weren't ready to act... There were quite a few higher-ups who thought that whatever you were carrying inside you posed a significant risk to the security of our planet. By the time we got involved, it was too late for our doctors to take any measures without harming you. And there was a lot of talk about... neutralizing the threat. You were lucky to wake up from that visit at all. I convinced them to take a wait-and-see approach. And I think it's paid off."

Ross doesn't seem at all bothered by his confession.

"You didn't have your cape with you the other times, so that made it easier. Damn thing put up quite a fight. Luckily, we have experts working for us who knew how to deal with it."

Stephen can feel the cloak stiffen against his neck. He puts a reassuring hand up to it. 

"Why are you doing this?" He says it almost to himself. "Why now? It doesn't make any sense, unless..."

The card in Jacobsen's house... He'd thought it was just a coincidence—that Ross's people were interested in Jacobsen for the same reason they were interested in him. But that's not the only reason. His spell hadn't been wrong at all...

"You were the buyer. For the relic... You were the one Jacobsen was supposed to meet that night."

Ross actually looks surprised. "I..." He shuts his mouth, blinks, recovers quickly with another smile. "Yes, we were interested in... purchasing it. We didn't want an object like that to fall into the wrong hands. And our researchers were eager to study it."

That still makes no sense. "You've got snipers and drugs and an army to back you up... Why didn't you just take it?"

Ross doesn't say anything.

Stephen nods, steps closer. "You needed something else from Jacobsen. You needed to know how to open it."

He's standing close enough now that Ross has to tilt his head back to look up at him. Stephen knows he's taking a chance pushing him—he half expects to feel the sting of a dart in his neck any second. They approached him in the open this time, however. He's betting that they don't want to go that route today.

"What? Were your wonder drugs not enough to get it out of him?"

He can see Ross's jaw tighten, but he nods. "Correct. The drugs we use were chosen specifically because they block magical ability. And just the gestures and words were worthless to us without someone who could use them. But Jacobsen was easy to persuade once we mentioned money."

"Your own experts not expert enough to manage it?"

Ross shrugs, nonchalant. He's already gotten his confidence back. "We're a newer organization. It'll take us some time to recruit the right people."

"If this whole thing is all about the relic..." He gestures vaguely at the two of them. "Then why haven't you asked me any questions about it?"

Ross just smirks at him. The man is really asking to be punched in the face. Stephen wishes his hands could manage it.

Ross gives his umbrella a hard shake, flinging water in Stephen's eyes. He says, "I think we're done here. For now," and glances up at the windows above them, gives a terse nod. Then he turns away and walks towards the street. "We'll be in touch." 

Stephen just stands there, cold and dripping, before he remembers something else... " _Hey!_ How did you know I'd be here? How did you find me?"

How did they know he would be at _this_ market, buying salt. They couldn't have followed him from the Sanctum because there was no trail to follow...

Ross waves casually over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Stephen!" 

And he disappears around the corner.

  

***

 

A surprising amount of magical innovation, Stephen's realized, is just taking something that worked before and adapting it to suit your purposes. 

Location spells are only tricky because, at their core, they're a type of binding. A binding between a sorcerer and whatever object or person he or she is trying to locate.

But it's difficult to form a bond when you don't have the person or object right in front of you. So this bond has to be made through the use of a proxy—usually blood, if you want to find a person, or maybe a piece or a part of an inanimate object, like a paint scraping from a work of art. And, as is the case with standard binding spells, the best way to make a strong bond is through close physical contact.

 _And that's where the mud comes in_ , he thinks...

The easiest and fastest way to get in close physical contact with mud is to, well... eat it. And the salt acts as a magical enhancer of sorts, amplifying the connection between the sorcerer and the object. The key step, he's found, is to heat the two elements together with a little water until the salt dissolves, and you get a good mixture between them.

And that's how he's found himself stirring a pot of what is, essentially, mud soup in the Sanctum's kitchen. The stuff looks like slightly gray-ish brown slime at the moment—the first bubbles are just starting to form around the edges as it heats, bursting sluggishly.

 _This is really going to taste like shit_ , he thinks.

Mordo leans over his shoulder to get a better look. His mouth twists up in mild disgust. "Are you sure that's not too much salt?" 

 _Everyone's a critic..._ Stephen just keeps stirring. If he lets it sit for too long over the heat it might burn. And that probably won't improve the flavor. "Yeah, its fine. I know what I'm doing."

Mordo gives him a dubious look, which Stephen ignores, but he backs off a little, leans against the counter. His gaze wandering over the kitchen.

Stephen watches him out of the corner of his eye. Mordo must have showered while he was hiding upstairs because he's wearing new clothes—one of Stephen's old t-shirts and some loose pants he sometimes wears when he goes running. They almost fit him, though the shirt is just a little too tight across the chest... He shakes his head to derail that thought. 

He wonders where Mordo's boots and staff are. He didn't have them when he stumbled into the Sanctum. No sling ring, either.

Before he got back to the Sanctum, he'd made a decision to not tell Mordo about his encounter with Ross. He'd already left out some parts of his visit to Jacobsen's house when he'd talked to Mordo earlier—his talk with the cape, obviously, but also the divination spell and finding the business card. Not sure why he'd done that... He suspects Mordo already knows Ross was the buyer—that was probably what he was hiding when Stephen stumbled home after the latest drugging. If Mordo decided to hold something back, maybe he will, too. 

Stephen drags his attention back to the pot on the stove. It's reached a nice, slow boil now. Once the salt is completely dissolved, they'll need to let it cool before they can use it—

"Been a long time since I've been in here," Mordo says quietly. "The last time was with Master Drumm..." 

Stephen glances over, confused. "You were here last spring..."

"I mean, in the kitchen. The last time I was in here, I had dinner with Daniel. He was a good cook." Mordo looks thoughtful, remembering. 

"Were the two of you friends? I never really asked about that..."

"Not friends, no. But we were colleagues. I respected the man. He was a good Master—no nonsense, conventional. By the book, as they say." He grins at Stephen. "Not at all like the current Master." 

Stephen hums in agreement. "Yeah. The new Master is a real fuck-up." He gives the sludge one more poke with the spoon— _looks ready_ —and moves the pot to a cool burner, shakes out the tension in his hand. "And he is definitely not a good cook." 

Mordo chuckles, gestures at the pot. "So... how does this work?" he asks. "I know the basics, but I've never tried this particular technique before."

"After it cools, one of us is going to have to, uh... eat this." Stephen shrugs, grimaces. "I suppose there are other ways to administer it, but I don't think either of us would enjoy that so... yeah. Then, there's a ritual—I wrote it out." He sits down at the kitchen table, gestures at the open spell book and paper. He'd been working on that while Mordo showered.

"It's not a difficult spell. I used it a few months ago to find a lost cat. And, uh, yeah... that was unpleasant." He waves the thought away, shudders. "Let's not talk about it right now... But it worked. This is more complicated, of course. If I'm right, the relic should always be the closest point between our world and the dimension the mud is from, so the spell should point us in that direction. When you cast it, you should feel a sort of pulling sensation, guiding you right to the relic. I mean... if it works."

"I know it will work," Mordo says. He sits down at the table, pulls Stephen's notes closer so he can study them. "You have a gift for this." 

Stephen ducks his head slightly—he's never been one to shy away from any kind of praise, but the compliment from Mordo brings an embarrassing flash of heat to his face.

He stands up suddenly, making his chair screech against the floor. "I'm just going to... uh, change. I think. Got soaked while I was out there..."

 _"_ Strange, wait..." Mordo suddenly looks apprehensive. "Before we do this, I will probably need to draw more power from you. If we are to face them soon... I'm not at full strength yet. And Jacobsen is dangerous." 

Stephen sits back down carefully, brushes some salt off the table. 

Mordo doesn't look at him. "But... I understand if you are apprehensive... What I did last night, what I forced you to do... There's really no excuse for that. It was unconscionable. I took advantage of our connection. That was wrong. And I am sorry."

"You know I cannot promise to keep my hands to myself, but I will do my best to respect your wishes. And... keep my feelings for you out of the proceedings. As much as I am able."

Stephen catches a flash of red in the kitchen doorway—the cloak sneaking out of the room. He frowns at it. _Coward_.

He knew Mordo was going to ask for this, of course, but he doesn't have a response prepared. Was going to just wait and see how everything played out. See how he felt when it came up. And now that it has, he's still not sure how he feels, what he wants. He owes so much to Mordo. For everything. For saving his life, many times over. When he was at his absolute lowest—ready to die alone in the streets—Mordo was there. That debt that can never be repaid. And not like this. But maybe he could show Mordo how he feels...

 _Decision time_ , he thinks.

"I don't think I want you to keep your hands to yourself. I mean... if you didn't want to... keep them to yourself, that is. I'm not gay, but... I, uh, actually enjoyed some parts of, uh... last night. What we did..."

 _Oh god, what is he saying?_ They've already had sex. He's sucked Mordo off, _for fuck's sake..._ This shouldn't be so hard.

"I just... I mean..." He scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm trying to say, that if you wanted to... I mean... Whatever you want to do. I... I want that, too. I'm willing to do that for you. For us."

Mordo just looks back at him in confusion for a moment, then he smiles, shakes his head. "You're _bad_ at this." He sounds amused. 

Stephen scowls at him.

"You're so damn good at everything else. And you're bad at this."

"Forget it. Sorry I said anything—"

"No, no. Wait..." Mordo says. He reaches out and caresses Stephen's jaw where he's gone scruffy— _damn, he really needs a shave_ —pulls him back gently. "I like it. I find it... very charming."

"Yeah, well..." Stephen grumbles, hating how hot his face feels.

And Mordo leans over and kisses him, probably just to shut him up, or maybe to keep him from embarrassing himself further. His lips are so soft...  _oh, this was a good decision_ , Stephen decides, _maybe the best he's ever made_.

Things escalate quickly from there, until Mordo's pulling him out of his chair and pressing his back into the hard edge of the table, and they're grinding against each other, panting.

Stephen jerks his face away to breathe and say, "Uh... bedroom, maybe..."

Wong would probably be pissed if he caught them fucking on the kitchen table.

 

*** 

 

Somehow, they manage to stumble up the huge staircase and down the hall to Stephen's room without injuring each other.

Mordo doesn't hesitate, just pulls his shirt off as soon as they cross the threshold. He grabs Stephen by the arms and shoves him back until his legs hit the bed, kisses him again before he can protest.

Stephen feels slow and clumsy next to Mordo's grace, like it's taking too long for nerve impulses to reach the ends of his limbs. He'd always felt that way when they were fighting, though. And this new dynamic feels almost the same, except that their mouths are locked together.

He weighs about the same as Mordo, but he's taller—his only advantage—so he shoves back with his body and mouth when Mordo tries to tip him over onto the bed. 

Mordo responds by hooking his foot behind Stephen's calf and yanking his leg out from under him. Stephen sits down hard on the bed, pulling Mordo down next to him. They're both breathing hard and Stephen huffs out a laugh. Definitely not a typical first date...

Mordo leans over, lets his hand wander up to the back of Stephen's neck. He closes his fingers around a fistful of short hair and pulls him in for another kiss.

The hand in his hair is rough, pulling hard enough to hurt, but Mordo's mouth on his is gentle, slow. _It's interesting_ , Stephen thinks. Different from anything he's experienced before with another lover. But he thinks he understands the appeal.

He makes a decision to allow Mordo to lead, just go along with this—he's curious to see what Mordo will do given free reign over him. Recalls the way Mordo always liked to get him in a headlock back when they used to spar. How he'd hold on until Stephen stopped struggling, and then for a little bit longer... Makes sense now...

When Stephen finally relaxes into the kiss, Mordo groans against his mouth. Also, interesting...

He pulls back a little so he can see Mordo's face. "You like this."

Mordo gives him a look that says he's being an idiot again. "Obviously."

"No, I mean you like being in control, telling me what to do. It turns you on when I fight back, but..." He pauses, considering. "You also like it when I just... give in."

Mordo's eyes are honest and steady. No hint of shame or hesitation there. "Yes, I do. Is that a problem?"

Stephen stares back at him for a moment, and then drops his gaze deliberately to the floor. "Nope," he says, voice soft. He's flexible—he'll try anything once, just to see what it's like. He can be submissive for Mordo, if that's what Mordo needs right now. Maybe it's what he needs, too...

Mordo makes a low sound like a growl and pulls him back in. "Enough talk," he mutters, before fitting their mouths together once more.

Stephen finds it oddly soothing—giving in. A relief to stop thinking. His brain has been pathetic lately, anyway. Also, he's never done this before, but Mordo has. That much is obvious. Easier to let Mordo decide where this is going, just let himself be swept along...

He runs his hands over Mordo's chest, tentatively at first and then with more confidence. Not so different... His skin is surprisingly soft, smooth, just slightly sweaty. But then he has to see what his fingers are feeling, so he breaks their kiss to get a better look.

Mordo has a nice chest—not overly muscled, but strong, solid. The scars are an added point of interest. Stephen's seen him without a shirt before, obviously, but never really paid much attention. Was probably too busy getting his ass kicked at the time. Still... _The man is objectively very good-looking_ , Stephen thinks. _And probably subjectively, too._ It's just feels bizarre to consider Mordo—to consider any man, really—in a sexual context.

Despite everything he now has to look at, Stephen can't help focusing right away on Mordo's injured shoulder. _No bandage, looks good, healing well, still no signs of infection, a little bit of pulling around the sutures, definitely going to leave a new scar—_

"Stop it."

Stephen starts guiltily. "Stop what?"

"Examining me." Mordo's eyes are warm, his mouth twisted up in a little half smile. "Come here." Mordo pulls him back in again.

 _Clothes_ , he realizes suddenly. He's wearing too many. Luckily, Mordo seems to be able to read his mind, and Stephen doesn't even have to embarrass himself by asking for help before the other man is tugging his still damp shirt up and off. Mordo tosses it aside and then just stares at him.  

Stephen's never really been into being scrutinized, so he leans over and kisses Mordo again. And then Mordo's touching him all over with his slightly rough fingers and it feels fucking fantastic. The next few minutes pass in a blur, and Mordo's pants are finally off, thrown somewhere on the floor, and Stephen can see everything.

Mordo's cock is strong and sturdy looking. _Just like he is_ , Stephen thinks. A shade darker than the rest of his skin, especially near the tip. Not circumcised—he hadn't noticed that last night. Thicker than his own, but about the same length. Stephen reaches out to touch him, curses his hands when the best he can do is run his stiff fingers along Mordo's smooth skin.

Mordo doesn't seem to mind. He sighs and presses his hand to Stephen's, wraps his fingers around and moves them both together, pushing the foreskin up and down his length. Stephen slides his palm up to cover his glans, rubs against the wetness there. Mordo groans and pushes up into his hand, and Stephen wants badly to take him into his mouth, taste him...

But Mordo has other plans, apparently. He moves Stephen's hand aside gently and reaches for the buttons of his pants. He pauses, raises his eyebrows at Stephen, clearly asking for permission

"Yes," Stephen breathes. He helps Mordo push his pants down and off. And then they're both naked together, hands roaming over each other's bodies. 

Mordo breaks another kiss to ask, "Do you have any slick?"

Stephen's brain struggles to catch up _. What? Oh, right.._. "In the drawer. Bedside table." He's been surprisingly okay with all of this nudity, but he hates the shiver of fear that rushes through him now. Obviously, lube was going to factor into the proceedings somehow. He's not sure why the thought of that is making him nervous.

Mordo smiles at him, reaches across to open the drawer and take out the bottle. He stashes it somewhere on his side of the bed, turns back and runs his fingers down Stephen's flushed chest.

"I like seeing you like this..." His voice is so low and rough.

"Like what?"

"Out of sorts. Off balance."  

Stephen has to fight down the urge to snap back with a sarcastic comment. Instead, he bites his lip and looks down. 

That must have been the correct response because Mordo grabs him by the back of the head and kisses him again, splays his other hand across his chest. And Stephen can't quite shut his brain off and just enjoy this. He's still trying to catalogue and compare—Mordo's lips are full and soft, he tastes like old coffee, and a little like toothpaste. His skin smells faintly of incense. And Mordo knows what he wants, pushing forward, guiding Stephen's head to the exact angle he likes, biting at his lower lip and holding on until Stephen whimpers.

Mordo pushes Stephen gently back against the headboard, tries to spread his thighs apart with his knees so he can get between them.

Stephen presses a hand to his chest. "Wait. Stop." His heart is suddenly racing for all the wrong reasons, adrenaline rushing through him. This is not the same—the rational part of him knows it's not—but it _feels_ the same.

Mordo's eyes search his for a moment before understanding softens them. Stephen looks away, embarrassed.

He's pretty sure he can do this, but even the thought of being on his back makes him feel like he could slide into another panic attack. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

"It's not you. It's... not _this_." He gestures between the two of them. "It's... what happened last year... I'm still not over it. I just... don't want to be on my back." He really doesn't want to talk about this right now. Mostly, he wants to forget it...

Mordo doesn't want to dwell on it either. "I want you on your hands and knees." 

Stephen swallows hard. _Oh, already... okay._

But before he can think about it for too long and fuck everything up, he just does as he's told, positioning himself near the center of the bed. His hands don't feel too bad like this. He can probably hold himself up for a while. He feels vulnerable like this, though, uncomfortable.

The bed dips, creaks slightly—Mordo getting behind him. Stephen holds still, waiting for something to happen. But the other man doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. He's just back there, silent except for his breathing. Stephen can feel the heat from his skin. He must be close, almost touching...

He's tensing up slowly and starting to wonder why he'd agreed to do this. His heart is too loud all of a sudden—the thump and vibration in his chest is annoying. He wishes Mordo would do or say something. Anything. He really needs a distraction. Maybe they can just go back to touching—take it slow, instead of rushing into sex. He thinks about saying something awful just to get out of this, push Mordo away. He wants to jump out of his skin. He shuts his eyes. _Oh god, why is he doing this? This is a mistake—_

Stephen jumps when Mordo finally puts a hand on his back. He moves it down slowly to Stephen's ass, lets his thumb caress the crease at the top of his thigh. _Oh, and that's..._ Stephen shivers _._

"Shhh…" Mordo whispers. "Stop thinking so much." He moves his thumb up so he's stroking along the cleft of Stephen's ass.

 _That's working_ , Stephen thinks. It feels good—just on the edge of ticklish, but tipping over into arousing. He's definitely getting hard again now. Mordo's fingers are sliding down between his legs, cupping his balls. Stephen moans low in his throat.

Mordo shifts up behind him, wedging his knees between Stephen's, pushing his thighs apart. His brain freezes up when Mordo's erection brushes against his ass, heavy and hot, dragging pre-come along the back of his thigh. Panic rushes back in, and he locks his legs against Mordo's, breathing hard.

Mordo pushes harder, trying to force his knees apart. "More. Open." His tone says he's not willing to negotiate.

Stephen shakes his head hard, says, "no..." in a low voice. It comes out strangled, uncertain. He's not gay… _Why is he doing this? Why does he want this? He shouldn't want this..._

They stay locked together, pushing against each other for a few moments, both breathing harshly. And then Stephen mutters, "fuck," under his breath and relents, letting Mordo shove his knees apart.

_Oh god, they're really doing this. He's going to let Mordo fuck him…_

Mordo doesn't waste any time. He reaches between Stephen's spread legs and grasps his erection, sliding his fingers gently along his length. Stephen groans and tries to push forward into his hand, but Mordo loosens his grip, frustrating him. "Hold on," he says, quietly. Then he's reaching over for something on the bed—the lube—and doing something with it that Stephen can't see.

_Don't think, just stop thinking… let it happen._

But then Mordo's hand is back, warm and slick with lube, wrapping around him again. And that's good—it feels so good. He focuses on the feeling of Mordo's slightly rough hand on him, moving up to his glans, squeezing at the top, moving back down. Mordo gives him a little push to encourage him to move his hips, so he does—thrusting slowly into Mordo's fist.

Mordo slides a slippery finger against his anus and then holds it there, pressing just slightly. Stephen freezes again, panting.

"Keep going. Push back onto me."

 _Oh fuck_ , he wants to. He's just…

"Come on, Strange." Mordo gives his cock another gentle stroke, and Stephen moves his hips forward and then back, hesitating. The finger presses and then just the tip slips inside. Stephen hisses—it hurts. He gives up moving back, tries to just hold still and relax.

Mordo works his finger in so gently, just the slowest push inside, but Stephen still can't help jerking away at the sharp sting as he's penetrated further. He can feel his erection wavering. "Sorry," he says, embarrassed. "I'm... just sore." He's not sure why he's the one apologizing—his soreness is most definitely Mordo's fault. Maybe this isn't going to work. They should do something else...

Mordo just makes a soft humming sound, his other hand is now tracing a soothing pattern up and down along Stephen's flank. That feels nice, so he tries to focus on Mordo's fingers on his skin. It's hard, though, because Mordo's other finger is now moving slowly in and out. The lube is helping a lot—the pain is quickly fading to a dull burning that almost feels good.

His brain is still working, cataloging, trying to sort out what's happening to him. Feels almost like every other DRE he's ever had, even the ones he and his partner had performed on each other in med school just for practice. Except this is different, obviously. He's never really had anyone do this to him in a sexual context. Last night was the first time, and he was too far gone to really notice what was happening then. But Mordo isn't hesitant or perfuntory like some embarrassed second year med student. He knows what he's doing. This is not clinical, this feels like sex.

Then Mordo is pulling back a little and rubbing his finger gently over Stephen's prostate, derailing his thoughts again. And— _oh god!_ —he's sore there, too. And even that soft touch feels so confusingly good and bad at the same time that Stephen can't quite stop a pathetic whine from leaving the back of his throat. He clenches involuntarily around Mordo's finger and tries to pull away. But Mordo just follows him, leaning forward and wrapping his forearm across Stephen's hip, reaching around to stroke his cock. All the while, keeping the same light and unhurried pressure inside him, driving him crazy.

He's tensing up again, getting overwhelmed. He needs a break, or a minute to think. Or to come... He's not sure. There's just too much sensation happening at once...

Mordo rests his palm on the small of his back. " _Relax_ ," he says, and his voice is a command filling Stephen's head.

The heavy warmth of Mordo's hand seems to seep right into his skin and Stephen can feel his muscles loosening as a wave of contentment spreads out through his body. It feels almost artificial, like a drug, like Mordo's voice is enough to control him. Maybe it is... _The spell... their connection_ , he wonders vaguely, can it do that? And does it only go one way? Or maybe he could tell Mordo what to do and he'd obey... The thought sends an odd thrill through him...

Whatever is happening seems to be working though—that sharp edge is gone and he's calm again. He barely registers the sound of Mordo doing something with the lube. And then he's back, slipping two fingers inside. This time, there's only a distant burning stretch as they slide all the way in. Nothing like last night—this feels good right away. Stephen drops his head and moans softly.

Mordo moves his other hand in soothing circles on Stephen's lower back. "That's it, that's good. You're doing so well." The fingers inside him feel good. Mordo's moving them gently in and out, twisting, loosening his muscles. "Open up for me. I need you open..."

He's starting to lose focus on what's happening back there. Mordo's voice is helping.

Two fingers, against his prostate—he gasps and jerks away again and Mordo follows him, unrelenting. Mordo moves his other hand down to cup his balls, holds him open with his thumb while he moves his fingers inside. 

He's fully hard now and aching. The constant pressure on his prostate is making him leak. He wants Mordo to touch him again, wants so badly to touch himself, but he doesn't think he can support his weight with only one arm. He wonders when they're going to get zapped by magic lightning again. Shouldn't that be happening by now? He wants Mordo to touch him. _Fuck, he needs it_. Why isn't he touching him?

" _Mordo_..." he pants. _Oh god_ , he sounds so pathetic, on the verge of begging for it.

Mordo knows what he's asking for, of course, runs a soothing hand down his back. "Not yet. I need to..." He twists his fingers in slow and deep, making Stephen whimper. "I want to be inside you this time. When it happens. I want to feel you come."

 _God_ , hearing Mordo say things like that is not helping. Stephen pushes back against the fingers inside him. If he could just get a little more friction... it might be enough to tip him over the edge...

Mordo knows what he's trying to do, and he won't have it. He presses his leg up against Stephen's thigh and holds tightly to his hip, keeping him still.

"Almost," he says. "Almost there…" Mordo adds more lube to his ass—it's cold against his skin—and pushes into him again. The burning stretch is back, and Stephen realizes he has three fingers inside him now. It feels like a lot. It _is_ a lot. He's surprised to find he's still hard, and he pushes back against the fingers trying not to lose the edge of his arousal.

Mordo rocks his fingers into him, gently at first and then harder. And then he's letting Stephen push back against his hand, finding his own rhythm.

When Mordo pulls his fingers away, Stephen whines pathetically. But then he's back, and Mordo's hands are steadying his hips, and something thicker and slick is pushing at his entrance. _Oh, fuck._ It's happening. He's not sure he's ready yet. Are they ready for this? What is he missing…? He tries to twist around to see…

 _Condom_ , he thinks desperately, _how has he managed to forget that?_   _Holy shit, he's the worst fucking doctor..._

But Mordo's already pushing into him slowly— _not too late, still time for a condom, maybe if he could just_ —and then he can't think about anything anymore. The burning as he's stretched out is intense, so much more than fingers. It hurts, it really does. He knew it would. Even with all the lube and the prep, even as open and loose as he is, it's just too much—he's not going to be able to do this.

"Mordo..." he manages to gasp. " _Wait_ —" He can't finish, can't make the words come. Mordo doesn't stop, just pushes steadily in until Stephen's shaking. He's too full, feels like he's being impaled, almost literally. Not as bad as other types of impalement—he's already experienced enough of that particular torment—but he can't do this. When Mordo finally stops moving, Stephen can only manage a choked-off sob. He can feel his body clenching around Mordo's cock, trying to push him back out, but he can't get away.

"Trust me." Mordo's voice is a strained whisper, like he's fighting for control, but his hands are gentle on Stephen's hips. "I won't hurt you. I promise. Just trust me."

Stephen wants to argue that he most definitely _is_ hurting him, but he knows what Mordo means. He's not being injured. As a doctor, he knows that—there's no tearing, the pain isn't nearly sharp enough to indicate any internal damage. He's fine. Logically, he knows he's fine. People do this every day. This is just sex.

"Relax, Strange. _Relax_." The command voice again.

Stephen wants to fight him, just on principle, just to see if he can. He struggles for a moment, trying to put up his mental shields, block out unwelcome magic the way he'd been taught at Kamar-Taj, but it's futile—whatever spell Mordo's using seems to slip right through his defenses, or around them. He can already feel his muscles unclenching, starting where Mordo's buried deep inside him and spreading outward, warming him like alcohol. He shivers as the tension in his body melts away.

"That's perfect. Good. Now... wiggle your toes."

_What the hell? That's the dumbest fucking—_

But he's suddenly doing it, feeling like an idiot, cool sheets bunching up between his toes. And he's distracted enough that he has trouble focusing when Mordo pulls out and then slides back in.

 _Oh, you sneaky bastard_ , he thinks.

This time, he stays loose and pliant, and Mordo pushes in deeper until his groin is pressed right up against Stephen's ass. The stinging pain is mostly gone. It's still uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Mordo pulls Stephen's hips back hard, rocks into him. Stephen gasps at the sensation. And, _oh_... That's not so bad...

Mordo's voice is barely a whisper. "I'm inside you. All the way inside. Can you feel me?"

 _Obviously_ , he wants to snap, but he can only manage a small, choked-off noise as Mordo starts to rock against him, cock sliding in and out.

Stephen loses track of time for a while, just trying to distance himself from what's happening to him. He focuses on Mordo's hands instead, how they feel on his hips, the sounds of Mordo's breathing above him, the soft grunts he makes when he pushes in. He can feel his muscles loosening, the slide is getting easier, smoother. His body isn't fighting so hard anymore.

 Mordo is still pushing in and out of him slowly, keeping up a steady rhythm. It feels so bizarre, right on the edge of painful, but not exactly that. Too much, too full each time he pushes in, but the exact same amount of too much each time and never more than that. He can handle it now—the momentary panic has backed off again, leaving him feeling disconnected from his body somehow. The fullness almost feels good now. He groans a little when Mordo pushes in. A tiny jolt of arousal flaring up inside him.

Mordo leans forward over him, apparently sensing a shift in the proceedings, runs his hand up his spine and into his hair, leaving a little trail of sparks in his wake. He pushes Stephen's head down gently. "Like this," he murmurs. 

Just his voice is enough to make Stephen shudder. He complies, wordlessly, Mordo's hand on his head a steady pressure guiding him down until his face is resting against the mattress, sheets cool against his skin. He hadn't realized how badly his arms were shaking, how tired his hands had gotten holding him up, and it feels good to let go. There's a momentary spike of embarrassment at how he must look right now, with his ass in the air, but then Mordo's next smooth thrust sends an unexpected rush of hot pleasure through him, drowning out the lingering pain.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, and tries to fist his hands in the sheets. The ache in his fingers almost feels good, like the signals to his brain from his peripheral nervous system have been confused somehow. He's getting hard again fast, didn't think it was possible.

Mordo chuckles softly above him and Stephen can feel it through his whole body. He pushes in again until their bodies are flush and slick where they're joined and then rolls his hips in a slow, decadent circle. Stephen moans helplessly. _Oh god_ , it's filthy how good that feels. _Different position_ , he thinks vaguely, _more pressure on his prostate_.

A breeze ruffles the hair on the back of his head. _Oh shit, it's finally happening_... He can hear the drapes snapping against the window. He groans as a jolt of energy races up his spine, nerves sparking. 

Mordo starts to speed up his movements, encouraged by the sounds Stephen's making, adding a little grind at the deepest part of each stroke. "Yes. Like that. _Oh gods_ , just like that, yes. You feel so good."

Stephen can feel that delicious tingling in his pelvis building with each thrust, pleasure shivering through him. He's close to aching again. _Oh god_ , he's close, he's almost there... As if on cue, the lightbulb in the lamp next to them bursts, scattering little shards of glass over the floor. Mordo stills above him, panting.

 _Christ_ , he's so fucking close—right on the edge. _Why isn't Mordo moving...?_

"Mordo," he gasps. " _Please_..." He doesn't care how he sounds anymore, he just needs to come.

But Mordo just holds on to his hips, still deep inside him, but not moving, not giving him the friction he needs. "I want to see your face."

He's so far gone it takes him more than a few moments to figure out what Mordo's saying. "I... I told you... I _can't_ —"

"I want you to ride me."

 _Oh, that... shit._  

Stephen winces when Mordo pulls out, but he moves over to the side so Mordo can stretch out on the bed. His skin gleams in the weak morning light where he's slick with sweat. "Here. Kneel over me. I'll help you."

Stephen does as he's told, carefully crawling over Mordo, straddling him. His whole body is trembling. He thinks his teeth might actually be chattering—he clenches his jaw to stop himself. He's not sure why he's reacting this way, but he feels exposed. He doesn't know what he's doing, hates feeling like this…

He realizes that Mordo is watching him intently, eyes roaming over his body. "Look at you," he murmurs. He runs his hands down Stephen's chest and stomach, making him twitch, ticklish, then down to his cock, wrapping strong fingers around him. Stephen gasps and thrusts up into the touch. He's still so close, despite his nerves. He's almost desperate now. Mordo gives him a few languid strokes, just enough to leave him panting, then grasps his hips again.

"Up a bit."

Mordo reaches down between them, uses one hand to steady himself at Stephen's entrance, the other on his hip to guide him. "Just sit back now."

Stephen sinks onto him as slowly as he can, hisses when Mordo's cock breeches him again. But everything else after that is easy. Mordo pulls him the rest of the way down until Stephen is sitting across his thighs.

"Fuck," he whispers. His useless hands slide in the sweat on Mordo's chest. 

"Gods, that's good. You feel so good." Mordo shuts his eyes for a moment, breathes hard through his nose. "Hold onto the headboard. I'll help you move."

Stephen shifts a little, leans forward. He can't actually grab the headboard—his fingers are just too stiff to curl around it—but he can rest his palms against it. 

He tentatively moves up and down, trying to get used to the stretch of Mordo's cock inside him. This new position feels good—gravity holding them together. He rolls his hips a little and Mordo moans beneath him. A spark of pleasure curls inside him. He rocks again, chasing that feeling.

"That's it. Yes, like that."

Stephen begins moving at a steady pace, sliding up and down on Mordo's cock. Everything feels good now—the burning around his rim, the ache in his balls, the fullness inside him—all of it is melting into a liquid rush of sensation, washing over him, through him. He can't move much faster, but he grinds down hard onto Mordo with each stroke.

He watches Mordo's face for as long as he can, trying to remember everything he sees there—the way he bites at his lower lip, how the lines between his eyes tense and relax as he thrusts, and how Mordo never looks away from Stephen's face. Eventually, even that is just too much, overwhelming him like panic, and he has to shut his eyes.

Easier and simpler to just feel...

"You like this, yes? You feel so good, oh gods, yes... Like that. Just like that. You want it harder, don't you. You want me to fuck you hard."

Probably a rhetorical question, not even a question at all, but Stephen nods frantically anyway, wet hair falling in his face. He _does_ want that.

Mordo bends his knees and plants his feet on the bed. His next thrust shoves Stephen forward and his sweaty palms almost slip off the headboard. He recovers, leans back against Mordo's thighs as much as he can. The change in angle means he doesn't have as much leverage, but it feels fucking amazing. 

The energy around them is building again, slowly, like a huge wave reaching its crest. He can feel the air swirling around them, gathering strength and speed. A bookshelf by the door topples over, scattering books everywhere, and Stephen wonders vaguely if they've finally run out of things to break in his bedroom. 

Stephen opens himself up to it—no shields at all this time, he's not even sure they would hold if he tried—and the energy pools quickly in his body, heavy in his pelvis and groin, filling him like blood.

And he hates the sound of his own voice, but he can't help it, gasps out, " _Harder_. Oh god, _please_ , just... fuck me harder."

Mordo's fingers are digging into his thighs—he'll definitely have bruises there later—pulling him down hard as he thrusts up into him. His legs, his knees are weak, trembling.

His toes are tingling, pleasure shivering through him, power filling him up fast. Too much, too quickly. _Fuck_ , he's overflowing. He needs to let it out before he comes apart.

"Oh god! _Fuck_." He needs to come so badly. He reaches down to touch himself, but his fucking fingers won't work, and he can't even jerk himself off. He has to settle for rubbing his palm against his erection. He's leaking and hard to the point of pain. And— _oh, god_ —it's still not enough. "Mordo, please... _Please_. I need it."

Mordo finally wraps a hand around him, strokes him hard once, then again, rubs his thumb roughly over the slit. And Stephen can't help clenching around Mordo's cock, the shocking pleasure of it all making him sob. Mordo groans and whispers, "Yes, _oh_ _gods_ , Strange, now. I want you to come right now. I want to feel you," and the look on his face is almost like pain.

Stephen has a single moment to wonder if Mordo's controlling him again, or if he's just that close, and then the pleasure is rising up inside him, a wave of heat and sensation, overtaking him and obliterating everything else in its path.

One more stroke of Mordo's hand and one more thrust and he's coming, white semen streaking Mordo's chest, mixing with the sweat there. He thinks he might be sobbing, he throws his head back and opens his mouth, but no words come out, just noise.

A blast of wind suddenly sweeps through the room with the force of a miniature hurricane, knocking books aside and blowing old ashes out of the fireplace in a gray and white cloud. Stephen shuts his eyes tight as a million stinging motes whip into his skin.

The shock of energy slamming through him and into Mordo is more powerful than his orgasm. It's like a force of nature—unstoppable. So easy now that he's invited it in, let it control him, like water rushing downhill. He can feel the electric connection between them, starting deep in his pelvis, down where Mordo's buried inside him, shocks radiating out into his body. And he clenches hard around Mordo's cock over and over again as his muscles contract.

He can't breathe, _oh_ _fuck_... Can't get enough oxygen. He's choking on ashes. Blackness is swimming in around the edges of his vision. His limbs are going numb. _Too_ _much_ _this_ _time_ , he thinks, _took_ _too_ _much_ _from_ _him this time_... He grabs onto Mordo and holds on as he bucks up into him.

Mordo gasps and twists his face into a grimace, and his cock seems to thicken inside him. He pushes into Stephen hard, almost throwing him off. And then Mordo's coming in him, silent, straining, as ashes drift down onto both of them.

 

***

 

Stephen needs some time to pull himself together, so he lets Mordo shower first.

He can still feel his heart thumping in his chest, slowing gradually, the jump of his pulse in his sore hands. His skin and even the inside of his mouth are gritty with ash. Overall, he's really fucking filthy.

He moves his legs against the bed to assess how sore he is. Not too bad. Not really any worse than he had been before. His hands are the same—stiff and painful. His knees creak when he bends them—just part of getting old. Way more disturbing, however, is the slithery feeling of lube and semen between his legs every time he shifts on the bed. He sits up and cringes at the sensation. Another reason condoms are useful...

Movement over by the fireplace startles him. He lets out a sigh of relief when the cloak drifts slowly up from its favorite chair, shakes ashes out onto the floor.

"Were you in here the whole time?" Stephen asks.

The cloak gives a little half-shrug.

"You saw all that?"

It sinks down behind the back of the chair.

 _Disturbing_... "We really need to have a talk when this is all over."

Now he definitely wants to be dressed. He grabs his pants off the floor, ignoring the slight dizziness that hits when he leans forward, and pulls them on awkwardly. His hands are so stiff they're no better than hooks at this point, but he manages to maneuver them up his legs. He knows he should wait until he can get in the shower, but he feels oddly vulnerable without clothes. His pants already need to be washed— _everything_ needs to be washed—so it hardly matters.

The buttons are an insurmountable obstacle, however. Stephen contemplates asking Mordo to do them up for him, tries to calculate exactly how pathetic that makes him. He would just give in and take the Flexeril, but he can't afford to be in a drug haze right now.

His train of thought is derailed by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He'd almost forgotten it was in there. _Shit_. Detective García again.

He sighs and answers it. "Hello?"

"Hey, Stephen."

"Yeah?" He knows he's being an asshole, but he doesn't care right now.

"I just wanted to check in... See how you were doing."

 _Perfect_ , he thinks. "I'm good. Really." He glances over at the bedroom door. He can still hear the water running in the shower faintly from down the hall. "Look, uh... Thanks for calling, but now is not a good time for me. Can I call you back?" His pants start to slide down and he tries to grab at them with one hand. His damn fingers won't cooperate, so he presses his palm hard against the waistband to keep them up. 

"Yeah, yeah." He can hear annoyed amusement in the other man's voice. "I also wanted to let you know that you were right."

He steps on a piece of the lightbulb, winces. His bedroom is a damn disaster zone. "Uh... about what?" 

"It _was_ murder. Patty Jacobsen. She was murdered. We dug two bullets out of the floor where your magic circle was all fucked up. Also found some blood at the scene that didn't belong to either Jacobsen or the victim. Seems pretty deliberate to me, though getting the DA to agree once we have a suspect might be another thing... Wouldn't have known about the magic circle thing without your—"

Stephen can't hear the rest of what he's saying because all he can think is _Mordo, the gun, the sound Patty heard, the circle—oh god, he'd forgotten about the fucking gun. He was there and he killed her. Mordo killed her..._

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, realizes he's let the phone drift away from his ear—he can hear García's tinny voice coming from somewhere down by his side. He's breathing hard and fast enough that he's suddenly on the verge of hyperventilation—too little carbon dioxide in his blood. His feet are tingling, his fingers are numb.  _Control it_ , he thinks desperately. He holds his breath for a moment, waits until he needs to breathe again, until the tingling subsides. Then he lifts the phone to his ear again. His hand is shaking so violently he nearly drops it.

_Mordo, what the fuck have you done?_

"—Hey, Stephen. _Hello?_ You still there?"

He has to clear his throat and swallow before he can speak. And, even then, his voice is barely a croak. "Yeah, uh... I'm here. Sorry. Just, uh..."

"You okay, man? You sound a little out of it. Did I say something to set you off?"

And maybe he's imagining it, but Stephen swears he can hear an edge of suspicion creeping into the Detective's concerned voice. He tries his best to act normal. _Just act fucking normal..._

"No, sorry. I'm fine. You just... you caught me at a bad time. Serious, uh, wizard stuff going on right now. Can I call you back?"

There's a pause on the line, then, "Yeah, man. It's cool. Just wanted to keep you updated. Give me a call when you sort out your magic shit."

"Yeah, uh... thanks for calling." Stephen drops the phone on the bed, scrubs his hands back through his hair. What the fuck is he going to do?

He realizes suddenly that he can't hear the shower anymore. Hasn't heard it for a while.

He turns around and Mordo is standing in the doorway. And his face... He knows— _oh god, of course he knows_ —he felt all of that. Everything. He knows everything. The connection between them... How could he have been so stupid? Mordo would have felt him panicking from a block away.

Mordo takes a step forward and the cloak launches itself at him. He flicks his hand and it crumples to the floor, unmoving, spread out like blood.

 _Oh, fuck_. Stephen takes a step back, hits the bed, can't go any further. " _Mordo_..."

Mordo's eyes are bright. He blinks hard and a tear slips down his cheek. "I'm sorry, Stephen."

 _Don't call me that_ , Stephen thinks. _That's not what you call me_. He lifts his trembling hands. He's got almost nothing left, but he might be able to conjure a simple shield...

"Don't come any closer." He tries, shaking with effort, but nothing comes, not even the smallest spark...

"I'm so, so sorry." Mordo steps further into the room, too close, and Stephen's vision doubles, triples. The light seems to swell and blur around him.

"Please, _don't_..." His hands aren't the problem. It's his head— _he can't fucking think._

" _Sleep_." 

And then he's slipping down into Mordo's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: awkward sex, someone experiences pain during sex (temporary, not serious), mildly dubious consent after a discussion granting consent (How does that work? I don't know...), uh... random use of italics.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slightly spoilery warnings at the bottom*
> 
> Holy heck! I am so sorry for the intensely long wait. And after a cliffhanger, too. I am a jerk.
> 
> This chapter has kicked my butt. I thought I had it the way I wanted, and then slowly realized it wasn't working out. It just never seemed right. And I suck at writing action. I ended up rewriting a lot to get it where it needed to be. I think it's there now. Stephen is not as awesome here as he is in Thor: Ragnarok because he's still learning.
> 
> This is now, officially, the longest thing I've ever written (besides a thesis defense) but I guess this is the end. Thanks so much for following along! I had a lot of fun writing this. And reading all of the comments. They really make my day :) Hope you enjoyed reading it, too.

Stephen wakes up in his bedroom, stretched out on his bed.

He blinks dully up at the ceiling, trying to remember how he got here. _Was he sleeping?_ He doesn't feel like he was sleeping...

The light coming in through the window is dim. It's raining again—seems like it's always raining now—and he can't tell what time of day it is. Not morning, though. _So why is he in bed?_

He should find his watch or phone, look at the time. But as soon as he thinks it a strange heaviness falls on him and he loses interest.

He feels odd, like he's drunk or sick. _Maybe he's sick?_ He wonders if that's why he's lying here, wearing pajamas, feeling like this. Makes sense, he thinks. He decides to go back to sleep.

Something pokes him and he opens his eyes again. The cloak is on top of him, but it's not wrapped around him like it does when he's sleeping. Instead, the red fabric is moving restlessly, pulling at his arms, and poking at his face.

"I'm trying to sleep. Leave me alone for a little while? Just a few more minutes..." He tries to close his eyes again, but the cloak gives him a shove. He remembers something. _Something that happened to the cloak..? Was it on the floor for some reason?_ He has an image in his head of red fabric spread out like a pool of blood—

His thoughts are derailed by the cloak pulling hard on his shoulder. "Cut it out," he mumbles. He tries to bat it away, but his arms don't cooperate. Maybe he should think about keeping the cloak in a closet. It could even have its own room—there's plenty of space in the Sanctum.

He closes his eyes again, and this time even the cloak can't rouse him. He drifts off for a while. 

When he wakes up again, the weird slug from the bathroom is staring at him from the edge of the bed.

"You," he rasps. "What are you doing here?"

There's no answer, of course. It's just a slug.

He's never really seen it this close before, though. It doesn't look like a regular slug—far too big, for one thing. Its skin is purplish and slick-looking, with little bumps, eye-stalks waving around slowly. He thinks it actually looks more like a sea slug than a terrestrial one. A hole behind its head opens and closes as the slug breathes. He used to know the name for that... some obscure science word he had to memorize in college.

He closes his eyes for a minute, trying to remember. When he opens them again, the slug is on top of him, just sitting on his chest. 

"Pneumostome," he mumbles. "Why are you on me?"

Still no answer. He's not even sure why he's talking to it.

The slug moves its head slowly from side to side, tendrils dipping down to brush against his skin. Almost like it's searching for something. The cloak, oddly, is just hovering off to the side. Stephen wonders if the two of them are friends, as absurd as that might be. They could share a room…

The slug has its mouth on him now, radula scraping at his skin. _College biology is really coming in handy today_ , he thinks. It doesn't hurt at all, mostly just tickles. He can feel something odd—almost like ice-water spreading through his chest under the slug's mouth. The shocking cold of it seems to wake him from his stupor.

Stephen looks around the room, confused, then back down at the slug. _What the hell is it doing?_ He can feel some kind of magic coming apart. A binding spell, maybe? Hard to tell when half of it is already gone. The slug seems to be absorbing the broken threads of energy somehow—he can feel them disappearing one by one.

Suddenly, he understands. "Magic... You eat magic," he says.

The slug finishes whatever's left of the spell and slides off of him, presumably on its way back to the bathroom. Stephen rubs at the spot on his chest, his skin still a little cold from the loss of the spell.

"But, why...?" He's still so confused... _What's happening? What the hell is he still doing in bed?_  

He finds that he can move again, actually _wants_ to move. He sits up, blinking around at the room, and then everything comes back to him in a sickening rush. 

" _Oh, fuck_ ," he whispers. 

 _Mordo_.

 

***

 

He trips downstairs and to the kitchen. The cloak sweeps along behind him.

The huge clock in the foyer strikes three as he passes it. _How long has he been asleep?_ There's no way he can tell how much time has passed since Mordo took off, how much time he has left before something terrible happens...

The pot he'd used to make the mud potion is empty—washed clean and drying in the rack by the sink. Stephen slams it down onto the counter. The jar he'd used to collect the mud is also clean, tucked neatly into the dish rack. He throws it across the room, wincing as it shatters against the refrigerator. Mordo even took the boxes of salt he'd just bought.

" _Fuck!_ " He clutches at his head in frustration, digs his nails into his scalp. It fucking hurts. " _Think_."

He can't let this happen, if it hasn't already... _Oh, god, please don't let it be too late._ He can't be the one who led Mordo right to them. He can't let that happen.

"Think," he mutters, pacing. There has to be some way to find them. Go back and get more mud, repeat the location spell. He dismisses that right away—it would take too much time. And it might lead him to the relic, but not necessarily to Mordo.

The bond, the connection between the two of them. _Could he use that?_

He closes his eyes and pushes aside the panic, tries to reach out with his consciousness for Mordo, feeling for that thread between them. _Nothing_. He's either too far away or the slug ate the last of the binding spell that connected them.

There has to be another way. There's always another way.

Out in the foyer again, he stalks back and forth, then stares down at the floor, up at the staircase, remembering. _Shit_. Mordo's blood—he'd stitched him up that first night. It's old now, but that shouldn't matter. And there might be enough for a location spell.

Stephen races up the stairs to the small bedroom where Mordo was staying. The trash can is right where it's supposed to be, but it's empty. 

" _Fuck!_ " He kicks it across the room and drops down on the bed, head in his hands.

Of course, Mordo would have thought of that—no halfway decent Sorcerer would leave their blood just sitting around. Probably got rid of it the first night he was here. 

The mud, then. He'll just go back and get more, maybe try it without the salt. It might work. He doesn't have any other options right now.

Stephen heads to his room, again—the cloak practically dragging him down the hall. No time to get dressed, so he tugs a coat on over his pajamas. He needs his sling ring, though. His hands shake terribly as he searches frantically around in the pile of clothes on the floor. Nothing—his belts are empty. Of course, Mordo took his sling ring. "You fucking asshole," he mutters. He throws everything back down.

He has another one—he's sure of it—in his office, downstairs. Now he just has to find it. More time that he doesn't have to spare...

He winces a little as he straightens up— _god, he's sore!_ —looks around at the mess the two of them made of his bedroom. Down at himself. He's a mess, too. He doesn't have time to get cleaned up—

Oh, _right_.

"Huh..." He sits down hard on the bed, thinking. The cloak tugs at his shoulders, probably wondering why they've suddenly stopped rushing around.

_This could work..._

Semen isn't blood, but the same principles apply. It should be enough for a location spell. Just because he's never read about it in one of Wong's books doesn't mean it hasn't been done before.

He knows there are spells one can use to get rid of any genetic material that might be left outside of the body—most of those work by burning it. So Mordo either hadn't thought of using one, or he hadn't wanted to hurt him. _Probably the former,_ Stephen thinks bitterly. Doesn't matter—if Mordo's made a mistake, Stephen has to use it.

And, as a bonus, he won't have to eat anything disgusting.

He knows the gestures and incantation of the location spell by heart now, and it takes him only seconds to cast it, despite his unsteady hands. Right away, he can feel the magic working—a strong force, pulling him somewhere off to his left.

"Guess you should've used a condom..." he mutters.

He really needs that sling ring.

Stephen takes a step toward to the door and almost gets yanked off his feet as the spell tries to force him in Mordo's direction. _Definitely working_ , he thinks. Feels like a strong wind is blowing him sideways. It takes a lot of concentration, and the cloak's help, but they finally make it down the stairs to his office.

He decides not to fuck around looking for the ring and casts a quick divination spell to find it. But the tremor in his hands interferes with his first attempt—he just can't get the gestures right.

" _Fuck_." He stares down at his hands, wills them to stop shaking.

After a few deep breaths, he tries casting the spell again. This time it works, but drawing the energy and manipulating it while the location spell is running in the background is surprisingly difficult. He frowns as sweat beads on his forehead. He can't worry about that now, concentrates on just finding the damn ring.

 _There_. In the third drawer down, under a bunch of papers.

He drops the spell and just stands still for a few moments, panting, trying to get his breath back. He can't remember ever being so worn out after casting such a simple bit of magic. Mordo must have taken a lot from him. And that's going to make facing him a lot harder.

No way around it—this is his fault, and he has to do whatever he can to stop it.

 

***

 

He almost trips as the location spell pulls him hard through the gateway.

Stephen takes a moment to orient himself. The spell has led him somewhere dark and cavernous—a warehouse, or some kind of factory, he realizes. There's light coming in, but only from a few windows and broken skylights far above him. Water dripping down through the cracks in the roof and pooling on the floor. Most of the space is empty—only a few pieces of hulking, unidentifiable machinery rusting along the edges of the space. Pigeons wheel around under the ceiling, disturbed and frantic, wings whistling.

Someone's here.

He focuses, closes his eyes. Magic nearby. A lot of it. And Mordo—he's like a raging inferno in Stephen's mind, brighter than anything else. Far brighter than the person with him, someone small and terrified, fear radiating out from them in sickening waves.

" _Shit_." Stephen opens his eyes, rushes toward the spot where he'd sensed them. Around the corner, in some kind of machine room. He stops just inside the doorway. Mordo has someone backed up against the far wall. There's so much magic flying around that it's hard for him to see. He can just make out the girl—Mary—standing over something on the ground. A body.  _Jacobsen_.

He's too late. 

 _Mordo_. Stephen can feel him, using all of that stolen power as a battering ram, trying to break down her shield with pure, brute force. And it's working—her defenses are crumbling under the onslaught. She's strong, but Mordo is far stronger.

Stephen has to do something quickly before Mordo gets through. He's too weak right now to take Mordo on directly, but if he can distract him, he might be able to get Mary back to the safety of the Sanctum.

He conjures a long thread of pure energy and whips it out at Mordo's legs. The magic wraps around Mordo's ankle and Stephen pulls as hard as he can, yanking him off his feet and sending him sliding across the wet floor. Mordo lets out a surprised shout as he crashes into a pile of boxes and wooden crates. Stephen waves his hand and sends a few more tumbling down on top of him. He can't worry right now about hurting Mordo—the man needs to be stopped. 

That was an easy spell and he's done it hundreds of times, but he staggers and almost loses his balance as his blood pressure drops. The stabbing pain in his head is a warning of things to come. He has no choice but to ignore it for now.

He stumbles toward Mary. If he could just grab her and get her back to the Sanctum...

" _Shit_ —" The cloak jerks him to the side as a fireball sails past his head. Too close—some of his hair might actually be smoking. Mary's obviously not completely helpless...

She raises her hands, ready to strike again. " _Get the fuck away from me!_ "

He takes a deep breath and steps forward. "Please... I'm here to help you. Just trust me—"

"Don't come any closer!" She throws another fireball at him. This one is no bigger than a fist and he pushes it aside easily. It spins off into a corner and gutters out quickly.

Now that he's near, he can see how hard she's shaking, the tear tracks in the dirt on her face. Her eyes are huge and staring, shocked. She's just a fucking kid...

He glances down at Jacobsen's corpse. There's an old wooden box tucked under his arm. The crater in the center of his ruined chest is still smoking. 

 _God damn you, Mordo._  

Stephen holds his hands out, palms up, to show he's not a threat. "Look. I'm trying to help you, but you have to let me." They don't have time for this—Mordo will be back any second now. "Please, let me help you. I'm—"

Mary looks at something past his shoulder and her eyes widen. Stephen spins around just as Mordo strikes. The shield he conjures is weak, but it's enough to counter the blast of energy Mordo throws at them. Sparks fly up and scatter around them, hissing as they hit the ground. The force of it pushes him back into Mary. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the pain in his head, the dizziness. The shield is a terrible power drain, taking every bit of strength and focus he has. He realizes he won't be able to hold it for long before he passes out.

Mordo knows it, too. Stephen can see it in his eyes. Their only chance is to get out of here. _Somehow_...

 _Shit_. Right now, they're trapped. He can't keep the shield and conjure a gateway at the same time—he just doesn't have enough strength to do both.

"Take my sling ring and get out of here," Stephen manages. The cloak helpfully pulls it out of his pocket, pushes it at Mary. "I'll… hold him here."

She looks down at the ring and back up at his face, confused and terrified.

" _What the fuck are you waiting for?_ " he growls. " _Go!_ "

"I—I don't know how to use that... I've never—"

" _Fuck!_ " He'll have to think of something else. He's running out of power. The pain in his head is intense, making him sick. He just needs to get them both out of here. The Mirror Dimension? Mordo would just follow them. _Oh gods_ , he just can't think fast enough like this...

Mordo moves steadily closer, his steps confident, brow furrowed in concentration. Power rushes out of him like a wave, battering against them. Stephen can feel the edges of his shield crumbling, disintegrating. He can't fix it right now—he has nothing more to add to the fraying spell. And he won't be able to hold what's left for much longer. Little black specks crowd the edges of his vision, threatening to invade. _Fuck, he's going to lose it…_

"Throw something at him! Distract him! Just do something," he gasps.

Mary searches desperately around on the ground, grabs a section of metal pipe. She flings it at Mordo and it hits him hard in the side of his knee, dropping him to the ground. The magic onslaught ends.

Stephen finally drops his shield, exhausted. They only have seconds. He turns to Mary and mutters, "Get behind me."

Mordo pushes himself back onto his feet. Stephen can see him wince as he shifts his weight to his left leg, but after a few faltering steps, he recovers. He walks toward them slowly, a grimace on his face.

Stephen prepares to conjure another shield—he can't waste the energy keeping one up, but he can be ready. There might be enough left for one more. They just need more time, _he_ needs more time...

Mary shifts behind him, breathing hard, as he stumbles backwards into her. She makes a small, choked-off sob in the back of her throat, and Stephen knows she's trying not to step on her father's body. They're back against the wall now—nowhere else to go. Stephen keeps his hands out in front of him, tries to ignore how much he's shaking, the nauseating pain in his head. He can't get distracted right now.

Mordo steps closer. Too close.

There's a hallway somewhere near them, but it's off to the right a little. Too far—they wouldn't make it before Mordo could get to them. He has to get Mary out of here. They really need a distraction.

"Hey." He turns his head to the side a little, so he can talk to the cloak. "I want you to take care of Mary. Keep her safe." He can feel the cloak stiffen against his back. "I'll be okay, I promise. Please, just do this for me..."

The cloak gives him a little squeeze and then reluctantly lifts off his shoulders. "Thanks," he whispers.

He can hear Mary behind him sputtering, "Hey! What the fuck is this—"

"Shut up. It's trying to help you. Just do what it says." He doesn't bother turning around, can't afford to take his eyes off Mordo.

Mordo stops when he's about ten feet away. He's wearing his green robes again, boots on. His face is both achingly familiar and absolutely terrifying—a darkness in his eyes that Stephen had only seen hints of before. Had it always been there just under the surface? Back at Kamar-Taj, when they were friends... When they were fucking... How had he missed something so fundamental?

The lines at his brow soften when he meets Stephen's eyes. Mordo lifts his hand and Stephen flinches.

"I won't hurt you," Mordo says gently. " _Sleep_." It's his command voice again.

But, this time nothing happens. And Stephen feels nothing but an ache in his heart.

Mordo drops his hand back down. He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

Stephen shrugs, tries to control his shaking—hide how weak he is right now. "I got rid of that. Didn't think you needed it anymore. Seems like you've already made a full recovery." It's hard to keep the pain out of his voice, keep his words light. He swallows past the tightness in his throat. "You used me."

Mordo's face is solemn. "Yes, I did." He pauses for a moment. "It was easy." He lets the words sink in, sharp and meant to hurt.

Everything is so blindingly obvious now—he was an absolute idiot to have missed it. "You never gave a shit about the relic. Not really. This was all about getting to Jacobsen." Stephen shakes his head slowly, trying to make sense of it all.  "Why? Because he violated your moral code? Broke the natural law?"

Mordo's jaw tightens. "Jacobsen was willing to risk our world—our very existence—for money. He was the worst sort of traitor—a man who stole power for the most petty and selfish reasons. He was a threat to everything that is good in this world. All I have done, is remove that threat. And the world is safer for it. Now step out of the way so I can finish the job."

Stephen doesn't move. He can hear Mary behind him, breathing hard. 

"Did you really need my help that night? Was all of this just an act? Everything between us..." His voice breaks on the last word. 

"No," Mordo says, eyes shining. "Not everything." He takes one step closer. "I did need your help to break the curse. I could not have done that on my own. And... the way I feel about you... that was real."

"Not real enough, obviously." 

Mordo's expression darkens. "Get out of my way, Strange." 

"No. I won't." He stands as tall as he can, trying his best shield Mary with his body. "I can't let you do this."

Mordo shakes his head once—a warning. "I do not wish to hurt you, but I will if I must." 

"She's just a kid."

"She is a threat to our very existence. And she cannot be allowed to live."

Stephen blinks back the tears that threaten to blur his vision—he can't get distracted right now. "What if I asked you to stop...? As your friend..."

Mordo pauses for just a second before answering. "Some things are more important than friendship."

Stephen nods sadly. "Yeah. I thought you'd say that." He raises his hands and unleashes the spell he's been holding.

Mordo whirls around and raises his arms as dozens of pigeons slam into him.

" _Now! Go!_ " Stephen yells at the cloak. It yanks Mary sideways off her feet and then down the hall.

Mordo lashes out at the birds with his arms and with magic, sending blood and gray feathers exploding out in all directions. 

The spell doesn't take a lot of energy, but it does take concentration. Stephen focuses hard and sends another wave of pigeons down. He can feel their tiny minds fading out one by one as Mordo destroys them. Each death pulls a little bit more of his consciousness along with it. He grits his teeth and grabs harder at the few that are still flying, pushes them toward Mordo.

" _Enough!_ " Mordo shouts. He flings out his arms and sends a shockwave of energy racing out. The last of the pigeons drop, lifeless, to the ground. And Stephen collapses back against the wall. In a second, Mordo is on top of him, strong hands closing around his throat.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, even as he tightens his grip.

Stephen gasps and tries to grab at Mordo's arms, but his hands just slide around without finding a purchase. He can't even curl his fingers into a fist to hit him. He bucks and kicks, trying to throw the other man off, using everything he's been taught. Mordo pulls his leg up and deflects easily when Stephen tries to knee him in the balls. He's getting frantic, desperate for a full breath. But Mordo's always been the better fighter, and he's just so tired...

"I'm sorry, Stephen. I did not want to do this." Mordo moves one hand down to his chest, pressing him back against the wall.

Stephen gasps as pain slams into him. He wonders for a second if he's having a heart attack, but then he realizes what's actually happening. Mordo is taking his magic, pulling what's left of it out of him somehow. He pushes at Mordo's hand frantically— _gods, it hurts so much!_ —but he just can't dislodge him. Black starts to creep into the edges of his vision. He's getting light-headed. His hands are growing weak and numb, his face is tingling. Everything is going numb. Soon, even the pain in his chest fades away. He stops struggling.

"I'm sorry," Mordo whispers. "Forgive me." His face is too close, but Stephen can see that his eyes are glittering and wet.

He didn't think this would kill him, but he knows he's dying. He's done it so many times already—recognizes all of the signs now. And he's not afraid anymore.

With the last of his strength, he reaches up and brushes clumsy fingers over Mordo's cheek, trails them through the tears there. He closes his eyes and lets his hand drop back down, too weak to hold it up. This isn't so bad—almost peaceful. He's just so tired—

But Mordo's hands are suddenly gone. 

Stephen's thoughts come back into focus. He opens his eyes just in time to catch the other man dodging behind a stack of crates. Stephen has only a split-second to wonder why before something thunks into the wall behind his left shoulder. He's turning to look at it—everything moving in slow motion—when something small and hard hits him on the side of his hip.

Stephen stares down at the tiny metal dart hanging from his coat. _Hasn't broken the skin_ , he realizes dully, _coat is too thick._

 _What?_ _Oh, shit. How the fuck—?_

Now he can see them—silhouettes crouched down by the warehouse doors, and moving into the room, dressed in black, faces covered, holding weapons. Ross's men.

_How the fuck did he find them?_

Stephen doesn't get a chance to consider that question. He raises a shaking hand to conjure a shield with the last of his strength just as a dart flashes off, shattering the fragile spell. His vision goes black again for a second and he stumbles to the ground. Another dart hits the wall right behind him with a little puff of dust. That one would have been a direct hit for sure—thank the gods he's hypotensive... He needs to get out of here. As soon as he can get his feet under him, he dashes to the side, nearly tripping over Jacobsen's corpse, and down the corridor the cloak had dragged Mary.

He makes it almost to the end of the corridor before a noise like a train approaching rushes up behind him, echoing like thunder in the empty space. A gust of wind slams into him and nearly knocks him onto his back. He lunges forward and grabs at a metal pipe running along the wall, but his fingers slip off, too weak and numb to grab. A cardboard box flies into him and bounces off, then another. He manages to stay on his feet, but he's leaning forward almost at forty-five degrees, just fighting against the wind. Papers and other debris are whipping into him. A heavy work table against the opposite wall starts to slide, metal feet screeching in protest against the ground.

_Oh shit, he's about to be swept away..._

He falls to the ground in a desperate attempt to keep from being sucked back down the hall. He claws at the floor, but there's just nothing for him to grab onto. A wooden crate tips over in front of him, spilling rusted metal pieces everywhere. They slide across the floor and slam into him. Stephen tucks his head under his arms, trying to shield himself. If something big comes at him, he realizes, he's fucked.

He's just starting to slide backwards down the hall, when something grabs him. He looks up and sees red fabric wrapped around his arm, pulling. Stephen reaches up with his other arm and the cloak grabs that, too. It holds onto him as more boxes and papers, and then an old wooden chair fly past him. The metal table flips onto its side and screeches out into the main room.

The wind gradually weakens enough that Stephen can stand again. He pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. Now he can hear screaming and shouting coming from down the corridor. And then the sound of gunfire, loud and terrifying.

Stephen drops back down to the ground in a panic before realizing that no one is actually shooting at him. He scrambles to his feet and ducks around the corner. 

Mary grabs him and shoves him back against the wall. She's still wearing the cloak, though it has to hold its edges up to keep from dragging on the ground. Her eyes are wide and terrified. "The box... He—he opened it! We have to... You have to—"

Stephen waves her off. "Yeah, yeah—I got it." They don't have time for this. There's more rapid gunfire and more shouting from down the hall. Whatever was coming is already here.

Stephen takes out his sling ring and manages to conjure a gateway to the Sanctum with the last of his strength. The pull of magic feels like it's splitting his head in two.

He swallows reflexively to keep from vomiting and gestures weakly at the gateway. "You need..." He tries again. "You need to get out of here."

Mary stares at the ring of sparks, looks back at him in confusion. "Wait. I'm not leaving..." She shakes her head. "What about my—"

"Keep her safe," Stephen says to the cloak.

" _Hey!_ You can't—" But the cloak is already dragging her backward through the gateway until she trips and lands on the wooden floor of the foyer, struggling against the fabric encircling her. " _Get the fuck off me!_ You can't do this! You—"

Stephen ignores her and closes the gateway. He staggers against the wall, breathing hard and trying not to puke. She'll be safe there. Mordo won't be able to get in, not with the wards he's set. Hopefully, she's not an idiot and stays inside. At least she's far away from here...

Stephen takes one more deep breath and pushes himself away from the wall. He's not ready to for this, but that's never stopped him before.

He runs into the first creature as soon as he turns the corner. It is terrifyingly tall, vaguely humanoid, but made completely of dark, dripping mud—no face at all, just a lump of mud at the top that looks vaguely like a head. The fingers, though, are each tipped with a huge claw that curls like a talon. They don't look like mud—more like bone. And they look sharp.

The mud creatures look pretty much exactly as he thought they would, but he didn't expect them to be so fast.

The creature rushes at him and he reacts on instinct—blowing it apart with a burst of energy. Not a good choice, he realizes, as he staggers and almost falls. Too much right now. He really can't afford to waste any more power.

He has only about five seconds to think up a spell before the next one is on him, lurching forward and slashing at him with a huge clawed hand. He dodges out of the way and casts a water-extraction spell, cursing at his hands when they don't move as fast as he wants them to. He figures moving energy around should be easier than pulling it from another dimension, but he could be wrong...

" _Shit_." This damn, complicated spell is almost too slow—not really designed for combat. The monster gets way too close before it finally slows, mud solidifying as water streams out and collects in the air. It shudders to a stop, and finally crumbles to the ground in a pile of dust. Stephen holds his hands up and concentrates, forming the water into a swirling mass.

_Now, where to put it...?_

One of Ross's soldiers is down nearby, a mud monster on top of him, tearing at the man's armor. Stephen flings the water at the creature and it disintegrates into a brown puddle.

The man on the ground seems okay—he sits up and his armor looks intact. Stephen doesn't have time to check on him. He has to get to the relic.

He breaks open a gateway to the mirror dimension and lures two of the creatures inside. They may be fast, but they're also stupid—mud doesn't offer a lot of computing power, obviously. But closing the gateway behind him is shockingly harder than opening it, and the effort leaves him bent over and dry-heaving for far too long. That's a trick he probably won't be able to pull off again.

When he can stand up straight again, he rushes down the hall. The box must be out here somewhere...

The main room is in chaos—Ross's people fighting with mud monsters. Stephen counts at least seven of the creatures and twice as many people. Guns seem to be effective against them. He watches as a soldier blows off a creature's arm.

Stephen scans the room. There's a huge pile of trash and twisted metal off to the side—the metal table that passed him in the hallway is on top. That must be where the relic is. Now, he just has to get under there somehow so he can reach it. Without getting shot or clawed to death…

He rushes into the room, heading for the junk pile, and hoping Ross's people won't be aiming for him. He ducks reflexively as someone fires near him. One of the monsters off to his left explodes, splattering him with mud. He takes a shaking breath and keeps going—he's almost there. Unfortunately, there are two creatures between him and the junk pile.

The closer one runs at him. He lifts his hands and performs the first transformation spell he can think of. The creature falls apart as its mud turns into a pile of dried leaves. _Not a bad job_ , Stephen thinks.

But that spell took more energy to cast than he could afford to spend—he has to fight hard to stay on his feet. And the next creature is already upon him.

He slips clumsily to the side just as a hand made of mud rakes through the air, the tips of the claws catching and ripping through his coat. There's a hot flash of pain in his side—a claw must've gotten through—but he ignores it and focuses on gathering the strength he has left for another spell, trying to think creatively. Moving energy around is always easier than producing it—that is the key. He spins around and freezes the creature solid just as it lunges forward—a blast of hot air rushes past him as the mud loses heat.

Black swims into the edges of his vision and he staggers back, lands hard on the pile of junk. Something sharp and metal glances off the back of his head. The pain seems to knock him back into his body. 

He groans and sits up as quickly as he dares, grabs at his head. Everything spins around sickeningly and finally settles. The nausea is really becoming a problem, making it hard to think clearly.

" _Fuck._ " That hurts... He feels around for the wound, fingers moving through hair matted with blood. The laceration's not too long or deep from what he can tell, just bleeding like crazy. He'll live... 

Something cold and wet is sinking into the fabric of his pants. Mud, he realizes. Seeping along the floor, moving out from under the junk pile and around his legs like something alive. Stephen stares, transfixed, as it coalesces into a little pile and starts to grow. 

"Shit..." He's too weak to try another spell right now, needs more time to recover. He has to get to that box. 

Stephen turns around and starts pulling at the junk on top of the pile. The relic has to be somewhere right in front of him—he can feel it—but it will be a challenge to get to. He flings a cardboard box out of the way. There's a twisted piece of sheet metal underneath, tangled up with a bunch of cables and metal wire. He tries grabbing at the edges, but he just doesn't have any strength left in his fingers and they slip off uselessly. He shoves and pushes with the edges of his hands, instead. A sharp corner slices deep into his palm and he swears, but he manages to shove the sheet metal out of the way.

There's a gunshot behind him, shockingly close, and mud spatters onto his back and head. His heart is still thumping too hard in his chest as he turns around.

One of Ross's men is standing there—the one he'd rescued in the hallway—mud dripping slowly off his armored vest, a bloody gash across his cheek, and another on his neck. "That one almost got you." 

"Uh...thanks," Stephen says when he can breathe again.

The man gestures at the junk pile with his gun. "Can you shut that thing off?"

Stephen eyes the weapon warily. Getting shot will probably not make his day better. "I think so," he pants. "If I can get to it."

"Well, do it then. I'll cover you."

Stephen nods in understanding and turns back around. He has to dig through what looks like boxes full of old files and papers, mixed with bits of broken metal and wood. His fingers are so stiff and sore that he can't use them to grab anymore—he has to settle for pawing through the mess, ignoring the feeling of his skin being torn up as he desperately searches.

"Come on, come on…" he mutters.

He drags another mud-soaked box out of the way and, finally, there it is—the relic. The lid is open. As he watches, more mud oozes out and pools around it, flowing across the floor.

Now that it's right in front of him, he realizes he has no idea how to close it. Stephen rubs a shaky hand across his mouth, considering.

 _Just shut the lid, maybe? Could it really be that simple?_ He won't know until he tries...

He reaches out to touch the box, but as soon as his fingers make contact with the wood, he's swept away.

He's suddenly somewhere else—somewhere cold and wet. Stephen raises his head to look around. An entire landscape of mud. He's sinking down into it, arms flailing out, but finding no purchase anywhere. There's just nothing to grab onto. Only mud... Mud everywhere, moving, churning all around him. Alive, somehow. A black sky, dark with rolling clouds. Rain falling, pouring down onto into the mud, soaking him. Lightning striking constantly all along the horizon.

And above all else, the crushing weight of something malevolent and evil. A consciousness—the same one he'd felt at Jacobsen's house. He shudders as the alien mind senses his presence, regards him with malice—he's an intruder, something that doesn't belong here. 

Stephen tries to scramble up out of the mud, but he can't get his feet under him and the mud keeps sucking him down. _Fuck, he's going to die here…_ Panic races through him in a cold rush.

_And how the hell did he get here? It just doesn't make any sense..._

The terrible presence suddenly gets stronger, filling his mind, crushing him down into the mud. He struggles frantically to keep his face above the surface, tries to breathe through his nose as mud fills his mouth. He's not getting enough air.  _Fuck, he has to get out of here_ … He still has his sling ring—in his pocket, he hopes. If he can just reach it and open a gateway...

He can hear something, he realizes. Something far away, and barely audible over the constant thunder. Someone yelling at him, telling him to hurry the fuck up. _Wake up!_ _They're coming! More are coming!_  

 _Wait... what?_ How can he possibly be hearing anything happening on Earth? _Unless_...

Unless he's not really here.

Stephen closes his eyes and tries to focus, calm his mind. It's not real. He's on Earth. He's—

_The mud! It's filling his nose, covering his head. He's drowning in it! He can't fucking breathe!_

He closes his eyes. "It's not real," he mutters. He takes a shaky breath—no mud in his lungs. "If you can talk, you can breathe," he reasons.

"It's not real, it's not real…" He says it over and over, like a mantra, takes one more breath and opens his eyes. And he's suddenly back—sitting in a pile of junk, surrounded by the sounds of shouting and guns firing. Not drowning in mud. _Back._  

Someone's yelling at him. "Hey man, come on! _Wake up!_ " It's the soldier with the gun, again. "Close that fucking thing! _What the fuck are you waiting for?_ "

What the fuck _is_ he waiting for?

Stephen shakes his head hard one more time to clear it. The pain and dizziness are actually grounding now—a reminder that he's still in his body. Stephen puts his hands cautiously on the box again. And this time, he's ready for the illusion. This time, he can fight against the pull on his mind. He struggles for a few seconds against the sensation of his body sinking down into the cold, wet mud, and then the real world snaps back into focus around him.

_Concentrate. Just concentrate…_

He shoves at the lid as hard as he can, but the damn thing won't move. " _Fuck!_ " he spits. There's got to be a way to close it. " _God damn it, think_..."

Ross had said they needed a Sorcerer to open it. What if they needed a Sorcerer to close it, too? What if there isn't a specific spell… Maybe you just needed to use magic, any magic... Worth a try, anyway... He doesn't have a lot of options right now.

He raises one hand and makes the gesture for a simple force spell—one he's used countless times to close doors or grab a book when he was too lazy to get up.

The lid on the box slams shut with a little squelching sound.

 _How anticlimactic_ , Stephen thinks blearily.

But it has the desired effect. He watches as a nearby monster melts into a pile of mud. The others quickly follow, if the sounds of cheering all around him are anything to go by. Stephen slumps over in relief. He doesn't even care if he's lying in mud.

_God, he feels like shit._

" _Holy shit!_ You did it! You did it, man!" It's the same soldier who saved him, he realizes—the one whose yelling brought him back. He should probably thank him for that.

Stephen just nods at him, trying to catch his breath and keep from puking. His head is pounding. He wishes he could just pass out right here on this pile of trash and either sleep or die. Both would feel pretty good right now. Blood from his torn scalp is trickling down around his ear and dripping onto a pile of old newspapers beneath him, soaking into the paper. He stares down at the headline, dazed.  _Alien Attack in New York!_  it screams.

The pain in his side is getting worse now that he's coming down from the adrenaline high. He reaches back to feel around under his coat, but his fingers are too stiff and numb to give him any useful information. He should probably ask for help. He might need to go to the hospital...

He can hear the man with the gun behind him, shouting something at him. Trying to get his attention probably. Stephen tries to turn around, figure out what he's saying.

And then someone is grabbing hard at his arms, pulling him away from the box. He watches as more of Ross's people rush past him and crowd around the relic, and then he's being turned around and shoved roughly to the ground. The abrupt movement makes his head spin. Hands suddenly appear from all sides to press him facedown into the mud.

He forces himself to go limp despite the panic he feels at being restrained. "I give up. I'm not fighting..." he gasps. The hands are still pressing. Someone's knee digs into his side. Stephen hisses and tries to keep still. He can hear a number of different voices around him, the crackle of a radio. In his peripheral vision, someone wields a syringe, uncaps it.

 _God damn it!_ "Wait, wait! I—I'm not doing anything. I can't! _Stop_ —"

The hands press him down harder for a second. He doesn't even feel the sting of the needle, but his thoughts grow hazy, sluggish. All of the panic leaves him. He stays conscious, though, which is... _odd_.

"All right, all right. That's enough. He's safe... Somebody get a medic over here." Someone talking above him. Maybe Ross?

Hands are rolling him onto his back. He doesn't resist. Unfortunately, whatever they've given him does nothing to dull the pain. Stephen groans as his side gets bumped again. He tries reaching for it, wanting to see how bad it is, but his arm is immediately shoved back down.

A woman leans over him—blond hair pulled back, brown eyes. She flashes a penlight in his eyes—the brightness is like needles stabbing into his skull—then her fingers are feeling along his scalp, checking his head. Looking for the source of the bleeding. Stephen knows it's not serious. Aside from the pounding headache, his brain is fine.

Her face is too close. She has an interesting scar across her cheek, a small gold earring in only one ear. She used to have a nose ring, but she's let the hole close up. Her mouth is moving and Stephen realizes she's asking him a question. "Sir? Are you injured anywhere? Any pain when I do this?"

He's having trouble focusing. Probably the whole point of the drug. That, plus the headache, are teaming up to make him incoherent. "There's a... a laceration on my, uh, left side, I think... bleeding."

The medic nods and pulls his coat and shirt out of the way. He winces as fingers press carefully along the wound.

"How bad is it?" He tries to roll his head to the side so he can see, but it's useless. He stares at the medic's face instead—her expression stays neutral. That's a good sign.

"Not too bad." She gives him a quick, reassuring smile. "You need a few stitches, but you'll live."

He smiles back. Whatever they've given him has also made him stupid. He's too tired to care. 

 

***

 

He feels a little better later, sitting on a crate up against the wall.

The medic had started an IV line after she'd bandaged him up, and the fluids are helping a lot. His head still hurts, but the nausea is receding. His hands are just starting to complain about the abuse he's put them through—tingling numbness giving way to a deep ache—it will be unbearable soon. The throbbing pain from the slice in his palm is just a bonus.

Someone had bound his hands behind his back with plastic zip-ties. He pulls at them compulsively, but they're cinched too tight to offer any hope of slipping out. Nowhere to go, anyway—they'd also taken his sling ring. He watches Ross bark orders at his people, directing the operation—either clean-up or investigation. Maybe both. Stephen can't really tell. 

He'd tried, surreptitiously, to do some magic—just a quick little spell to make a light—but he was either still too drained, or the drug he'd been given was doing its job. The latter, he supposes. He just couldn't focus enough to call up any power. And the bright stab of pain in his head afterward was enough to keep him from trying anything again.

He wonders how long they plan to keep him here. Or if they're even going to let him go this time.

An underling nearby is carefully sampling mud with some kind of plastic tool, scooping it into a plastic bag. Stephen looks down at himself—he's literally covered in mud. There's mud everywhere. This could take a while.

Stephen rolls his head against the wall so he can look up at one of the guards standing next to him. The one holding the bag of IV fluids. "Hey."

No response.

"Hey. I need to go to the hospital. I'm still bleeding." The man does his best to pretend Stephen doesn't exist.

"Hey, dickhead. Are you listening?" Nothing, but the guy shifts uncomfortably and clenches his jaw. "I need to talk to Ross."

This isn't getting him what he wants.

"Ross!" he shouts. The guards jump and stare down at him. Stephen ignores them. "Hey, Ross! I want to talk to you!"

Ross glances over before turning his attention back to the woman showing him something on a tablet.

"Hey! Shorty!"

Ross looks heavenward for a moment and sighs, but he nods a dismissal to the woman and ambles over.

He gives Stephen a stern look. "What is it, Strange?"

"When are you going to let me go? I need to get to the hospital. Have this stitched up." He tries to twist around to indicate his side.

"I'm having you moved to one of our facilities after we're done here. They'll take care of it there."

"No." He shakes his head too hard, almost tips off his crate. "Absolutely not. I don't consent."

"Not optional, Strange. Sorry. I'll release you after you've been debriefed, and we've got everything figured out."

He squints up at Ross. "Sooo... never, then?"

Ross smirks. "You're a funny guy, Stephen. That's one of the reasons I like to keep you around."

Stephen slumps back down on the box. _God damn it_. He's got things he needs to do—he doesn't have time for this shit right now.

Ross nods to the guards and turns to walk away.

"I figured it out," Stephen says suddenly.

Ross sighs again, turns around reluctantly. "Figured what out?"

"How you found us. It's some kind of GPS tracking thing, right? Implanted somewhere inside me? I'm right, aren't I?" He grins at Ross. Probably stupid to give away what he knows, but he's too high to care. "You didn't think to put one on Jacobsen. Why would you? He was already cooperating... But then he took off with the box and you had no way to track him down. So you used me, instead."

He pauses, considering how far back everything goes. "You knew I'd get involved because I showed up at the Jacobsen's that day, to help out Detective García. And you'd either already implanted this thing, or you put it in the night you abducted me. That's how you found me so quickly in the alley yesterday."

Ross's smile doesn't make it to his eyes this time. "That's a pretty good story, Strange."

Stephen's already considering how he can work around it. He's betting the tracking device is made of some material that won't show up on an x-ray or MRI, so he won't be able to find it that way. But it should be easy to figure out a spell to disable it or block the signal.

Either way, he's done fucking around with these assholes. "I won't let you use me again," he says.

"I don't think that's really your choice to make." Ross's voice and his eyes are cold. He nods again to the two guards and walks away.

This time, Stephen lets him go.

 

***

 

He spends the night in a small and very secure cell, pacing around the edges of the room. 

They'd given him a very thorough and, he thought, unnecessary exam when he'd been brought in. Probably to make sure he wasn't harboring any extra body parts. The doctor examining him had given him a knowing look and asked if he'd had any recent sexual contact, and he'd told her in no uncertain terms to fuck off. But then they'd done a halfway decent job stitching up his side and his scalp, along with another wound on his lower back that he hadn't even noticed. He ended up being not too badly injured—cuts, scrapes, and bruises and a minor electrolyte imbalance. Nothing that can't be fixed. And after some very good pain meds that took the edge off the ache in his hands and his head more than the wounds, he felt almost grateful. 

They allowed him to take an awkward and not very private shower to wash off the mud, and then he'd been given some clean scrubs and locked in this cell. A tiny, boring room with one chair and a hard cot. A metal toilet on one wall with a tiny sink above it.

An armed minion brought him a tray of food—a sandwich and a bottle of some off-brand electrolyte drink. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the food was right in front of him, and he ended up choking it down almost faster than he could chew. They brought him another sandwich and he ate that, too. He could have probably managed a third, but they cut him off. Maybe they were out of sandwiches…

He was left to himself, for the most part. Someone came by every few hours or so to administer the anti-magic drugs. He didn't even mind that so much—he was trapped here anyway, and the meds kept the anxiety from overwhelming him. If he had to be detained in a secret government lab, he might as well be high as a kite.

Eventually, the lights in his cell had been dimmed. Stephen knew they wanted him to sleep, but there was absolutely no way that would happen.

Instead, he spends the long hours stumbling around his cage, trying not to think too much.

He wonders if Mary was smart enough to stay in the Sanctum. No one from Ross's team will be able to get in there. She'll be safe as long as she stays inside.

He wonders where Mordo is... What he's doing right now…

Stephen stops pacing and presses his hands to his eyes to block out the thought of him, the nearly physical pain that lances through him. " _Fuck._ " He can't worry about that right now...

At some point—he's long since lost track of time—the door opens and Ross steps in, alone, carrying a small wooden box. Stephen eyes it warily.

Ross sits in the only chair, sets the box on his lap, fingers idly tracing over the carving on top. He looks up at Stephen, expectantly.

Stephen shakes his head, tries to ignore how dizzy and sick that makes him. "No. No way." He sits down on the cot when the nausea threatens to make an encore. "Also, fuck you," he adds, clutching at his head.

Ross laughs, surprised. "You haven't even given me a chance to say anything yet."

"Whatever it is, the answer is still no."

Ross looks at him like he's just being difficult for the sake of it. "We need your help."

Stephen tips his head at the box. "Not with that."

"We just want to know more about it. Figure out how it works." He sounds so reasonable, Stephen almost believes him.

"I think you want to figure out how you can use it... as a weapon," he slurs.

That disappointed look again. Ross should be used to this by now. "Stephen, please. Be reasonable. We just want to keep people safe. Protect the planet, our way of life. The same things you want."

Stephen snorts. This again... The man should be a politician.

Ross's expression suddenly hardens. "Where's Mary Jacobsen?"

He gives Ross a long look. "I don't know." It's obvious he's lying, but he doesn't care. If they really want the truth, they'll have to drug him again, force it out of him. He's not going to play along.

"She's in the Sanctum, isn't she?"

He smirks at Ross and says nothing, knowing it will piss him off.

Ross sighs. "Whatever defenses you've got on that place, they seem to be working. Half the time, the teams I send out there just end up wandering around Bleecker Street, like they've forgotten what they came there for. The rest of the time, it's like the building, itself, doesn't want them there. One of my men even swears he was attacked by a tree." Ross chuckles and shakes his head as if he doesn't believe it.

Stephen shrugs—he has nothing more to say to this dick.

Ross's smile fades. "We took care of Jacobsen's body. Cleaned everything up. The police are still looking for him. And for his daughter."

Stephen winces slightly, remembering. Thinking about how he'd failed. If he'd just been quicker, gotten there a few minutes sooner...

"Where's Karl Mordo?"

He meets Ross's eyes steadily. "I have no idea." It's the truth this time.

Ross nods slowly. He looks tired. "If you see him, we'd like to know. He's a wanted man now."

Stephen chooses to say nothing. He doubts they'd be able to get anywhere near Mordo. Not now…

Ross waits for a few moments, before nodding to himself. He gestures at the door and it slides open. One of the armed medics steps in, carrying a syringe. 

Apparently, they're done talking.

The medic looks like she's been trained to kick his ass if he gives her any trouble. Stephen obediently gives her the hand they'd left the saline lock in. He tips his head at the syringe. "What's that?" It's too soon for his next dose of anti-magic drugs.

The medic glances over at Ross, who gives her a quick nod. "Lorazepam," she says. 

Oh. They must have had enough of his pacing. He figures cooperating is the fastest way to get out of here, so he doesn't protest as she cleans the port with an alcohol swab.

Ross rises, cradles the box against his side like a treasure. "My superiors feel it's safer to keep you unconscious while you're our guest here. We'll let you go after we've sorted some things out. And Doctor Thompson says you need to get some sleep."

"She's probably right," Stephen mumbles. His eyelids already feel too heavy and the medic hasn't even finished pushing the drug yet.

When she's finally done, he stretches out on his side on the hard cot. Lets his eyes slip closed.

Ross's annoying voice wakes him for a second. "Until next time, Stephen."

He's too tired to come up with a snappy comeback, so he just grunts in response. The darkness closes over him, and he sleeps.

 

***

 

They release him the next morning.

The guards even drop him off right outside the Sanctum, although they keep him blindfolded on the drive there. The whole trip takes less than an hour. Factoring in the usual morning traffic, the place where they'd held him must be close. That revelation does not make him feel better.

Two of the men help him out of the van and onto the sidewalk. Stephen notes that they don't seem particularly eager to get too close to the Sanctum. He can't really blame them—the landscaping really is vicious.

He scowls at the van as they drive away, would give them the finger if his hand could manage it. Those assholes stole his last sling ring.

The huge front doors open for him when he approaches. He takes a tentative step inside and looks around. It's quiet and still inside the grand foyer, dust motes floating gently in a shaft of sunlight streaming down through a stained-glass window.

"Hello...?" he calls. His voice echoes around the empty space.

Stephen glances to his left just as a red streak shoots out of the library and slams into him, almost knocking him to the ground. He manages to free one arm from the full-body hug, so he can unwrap the fabric covering his face.

"Okay, okay," he laughs, stroking an edge of the cloak. "I missed you, too, buddy." 

There's a squeak from the loose floorboard on the second-floor landing. Stephen looks up.

Mary is standing there, staring down at him. "You're not dead," she says.

"No." He winces as the cloak finds and pokes at the sutures in the back of his head. "Not yet."

"I thought... when you didn't come back..." Her hands tighten on the railing.

"Yeah. Sorry." He manages to untangle himself from the cloak, which settles happily on his shoulders. "Got detained for a while."

He needs a shower and maybe a few more hours of sleep. Something to eat—he's still starving. Then he might be ready to deal with everything.

Mary is still just staring at him, waiting.

He clears his throat. "You're welcome to stay here... if you want. It's probably safer right now—there are people looking for you. The spells here will keep them out." He gestures around at the Sanctum. "I know I don't have much... I can get some take-out later, after I get cleaned up... Pick up whatever you need at the store."

Mary shrugs in that way teenagers do. It could mean anything.

"Look..." He swallows hard. "I'm sorry about your dad. I just... I couldn't save him. I'm sorry," he finishes. He doesn't know what else he can say right now.

Mary nods. She turns and disappears down the hall. A door slams from somewhere upstairs.

The cloak twitches at the sound. Stephen sighs and rubs at his aching head. He hasn't wanted a cigarette so badly in years.

 

***

 

The two of them are sitting at the kitchen table on a Tuesday night, waiting for their lasagna to cook.

The whole thing had started as a lesson in how to use magic in moderation—small spells to boil water, chop vegetables, and light a burner, rather than the energy blasts and shields that are all Mary's been taught—but the food might actually be edible this time. Mary had watched him fumble around with the ingredients for a few minutes before shooing him out of the way and taking charge. Stephen's just happy to see her out of her room and looking interested in something again.

 _Tumbling Dice_ by the Stones is playing on the old radio he'd found in a cupboard and set up on the counter. He wonders if it belonged to Master Drumm. Mary had scoffed at his music choices, but he'd seen her tapping her foot and swaying a little as she stirred the sauce.

Tonight, Mary's wearing an old Avengers t-shirt—Captain America's shield on the front. Stephen frowns. It's not one of his—almost fits her. Christine must have brought it yesterday when she'd come by to check on him and remove some sutures. He would have just pulled them himself, but reaching the back of his head proved challenging. And, besides, he needed some advice on dealing with teenage girls. Christine had just laughed and told him, "good luck with that."

He knows Christine is worried about him. He's self-aware enough to acknowledge that he's been acting off the last few days—detached and withdrawn. He's been spending his nights in the library again, not sleeping. He'd even let her take the bottle of oxycodone with her when she left last night, agreed to try gabapentin as an alternative, and promised her he would call his therapist and set up an appointment. He might actually do it.

Wong is worried about him, too, in his own way. Confessing to him had been just as hard as Stephen thought it would be. He'd left out a few crucial details, but Wong is smart enough to read between the lines and figure everything out. In the end, Stephen was surprised that he wasn't demoted or banished—Wong had just nodded in understanding and made him promise to stop by Kamar-Taj once a day to teach a group of new recruits about spell crafting. He knows it's Wong's way of checking up on him, but he doesn't mind so much.

The New York autumn had finally turned cold this morning, and an early season storm blows dried leaves against the windows over the sink. They might even get snow tonight. His hands ache with the change in the weather—his right is still wrapped in thick bandages—but he tries to keep himself busy and not focus on the pain. Having someone around who needs him is a welcome distraction, even if he won't admit as much to himself. And tonight, he feels a little better, despite the pain. Doesn't even miss the oxycodone too badly. Making dinner was a good idea. It's a small thing—stupid and domestic, but comforting. The Sanctum can get too quiet sometimes.

Stephen takes a sip of beer and looks around. The kitchen seems warmer now, more lived-in—dishes drying in the rack, more in the sink waiting to be washed. Real food on the shelves, a bowl of fruit on the table, the box of sugary cereal Mary had made him buy for her, a note on the fridge with a list of things they need at the store. Almost like a real home.

He hadn't realized how isolated he'd become lately, how accustomed to being alone.

 _Sweet Jane_ comes on the radio—the original, 1970, by The Velvet Underground.

 

_But, anyone who has a heart_

_Wouldn't want to turn around and break it_

_And, anyone who ever played the part_

_He wouldn't want to turn around and fake it_

 

Stephen winces as a memory of Mordo leaning against the counter comes to him—coffee mug in his hand, a fond smile on his face. The way he'd looked wearing Stephen's clothes, and then not wearing them…

He wonders sometimes what his life would be like now if things had gone differently. If Mordo had cared as much about their friendship as he cared about his vendetta. If Stephen had told Mordo how he felt about him before it was too late...

Stephen shakes his head and slumps back down into his chair, takes another sip of beer. Stupid to torture himself with ridiculous fantasies.

Mary's too busy staring at a spell book to notice, finger following along as she reads. "What's the point of the third circle of runes here? I thought the first ring was to draw the power and the second was to manipulate it? So why do you need a third?"

Stephen leans over to see what she's looking at. "They act like a cage, to keep the energy from leaking out past the boundaries of the spell."

Mary frowns down at the diagram. "Well, why doesn't it just say that?"

Stephen shrugs, takes another sip of beer. "It probably does. Later in the book."

Mary growls in frustration and tugs at her hair. "This would be so much easier to learn if they just wrote it in a way that makes sense!"

Stephen can't help snorting in agreement—he's had the same issues with most of these old books. 

Mary goes back to reading, asking for clarification or for a translation every once in a while. Teaching her to read Sanskrit is slow and tedious and he has to keep reminding himself to be patient, but it passes the time. Stephen sips at his beer and thinks. There's not a lot happening in the world of the mystic arts right now. Not a lot to keep him busy, aside from Wong and his students. Someone from Oregon sent him a note last week asking for his help with a poltergeist. To Stephen, it sounded more like a problem with the wiring in their old house, but he supposes he can take a trip out there and—

Mary clears her throat suddenly. Stephen looks up at her. 

"The man who killed my dad..." She just leaves it hanging there, like a question.

Stephen sits up a little straighter in his chair, sets his beer bottle carefully on the table. "Mordo," he says, frowning.

"He wants to kill me, too."

They haven't really talked about any of this yet. And Stephen's been dreading it. "Yes." 

"Why?"

"I don't know... He has some ideas about who should be allowed to use magic. And who... shouldn't."

"Is he a Sorcerer like you?"

He blows out a long breath. "He used to be, but he's not anymore. I don't know what he is now..."

Mary marks her page with a unicorn bookmark and shuts the book carefully. "Were the two of you... together? It's just... the way you talked, I..." 

She must notice the flush that creeps up his face, how his jaw tightens.

"Forget it. It's not my business."

He shrugs, picks up his beer again and finishes it in one swallow. "Well... it's complicated. But you're right..." Stephen looks up, gives her a wry smile. "It's none of your business."

Mary smiles back, just the barest hint, but it transforms her whole face.

 _Gods_ , _she's so young!_ She should be in college right now, going to parties and drinking cheap beer, and making terrible life choices. She's far too young to have to consider taking on the responsibilities of a Sorcerer, facing the kind of horrors he's already seen in his short career. Sacrificing everything to save the world. It was a decision he'd made when he thought his life was over. Mary has her whole future in front of her. 

He picks at the beer label. "You can stay here as long as you want. You don't have to decide right away. About Kamar-Taj, I mean. I let Wong know you might be stopping by. Or not. He was fine with it."

Actually, Wong was less than thrilled with the delay, knowing she'd be safer there, but he'd understood why Stephen was reluctant to push her. 

"Or…" he starts.

Mary looks up at him.

"If you want to do something else with your life… You could go to college, instead." He shrugs. He'd have to swallow his pride, make some kind of deal with Ross to get them to leave her alone—would be worth it, though. "I don't know what kind of background you have—grades, interests, that sort of thing… But if you wanted to, we could work on that. Get your GED, make it happen…"

_Gods, he needs to get better at this mentoring thing…_

Mary just nods, like she's already considered all of this. "I'd like to stay here for a little longer. If that's all right."

Stephen smiles at her. "Yeah, it's all right."

The timer on the oven dings.

 

***

 

Halloween night is crisp and cold. A bitter wind whips trash and leaves down the block, and forces even the most determined revelers to wear coats and scarves over their costumes.

Stephen and Mary sit out on the front stoop and hand out candy for as long as they can.

Stephen normally wouldn't have bothered with such inane things, but Mary seemed excited about the holiday. And he was happy to suffer for a little while if it helped take her mind off things. Mary spent the entire morning dyeing her hair purple, and managed to use up all of their hot water in the process. Spent the rest of the day selecting something black to wear—to Stephen, it looks like a tight-fitting garbage bag with holes in it, but he chose to keep that opinion to himself. Then they'd decorated the outside of the Sanctum with fake cobwebs he'd bought at the dollar store and a little real magic—a few small illusions that Mary researched and cast herself. A giant spider, some realistic-looking vampire bats.

The wind keeps threatening to sweep away the cobwebs, but the illusions look great. The bats take flight and swoop down over the street every so often.

 _She's definitely getting better_ , Stephen thinks. 

People stop to watch the giant spider climb around, scream at the bats, but no one recognizes real magic when they see it. Not tonight.

Stephen gets quite a few compliments on his 'costume', which makes Mary snicker into her hand. But the cloak seems happy to be outside as itself—Stephen swears he can feel it preening whenever someone stops to admire it.

This part of Bleecker Street doesn't get too many trick-or-treaters, mostly just young people on their way to the bars down the block. And, anyway, it's too cold out for all but the most determined Halloween fanatics.

They finally retreat back inside when the drunks outnumber the kids.

 

***

 

Detective García steps into the Sanctum. For a moment he's speechless, just looking around.

" _Holy shit_ , man!" His face is transformed by a huge grin. "This place is crazy! What's the property tax like on a place like this?"

Stephen laughs. Of course, that's what he'd focus on. "I actually don't know. I just live here. I'm kind of a... caretaker."

García shakes his head, still looking around. "Crazy..." His eyes finally settle on Stephen and he smirks. "You actually look like a wizard now. Nice cape, man."

"Sorcerer," Stephen says, but he can't help smiling back.

The detective had called that morning, way too early. He'd mentioned that he was in the city for court and asked if he could stop by. That meant Mary had to hide upstairs, which she'd reluctantly agreed to do after some whining. Seemed safer, since she was still wanted for questioning.

Stephen leads García to his office and they both settle at his desk. 

"So..." he prompts.

"So, yeah… The Jacobsen case," García says. He exhales loudly. "Yeah. That went nowhere. Case is completely dead. Still no sign of Jacobsen or his daughter." García taps at his lip, brow furrowed. "I thought I'd gotten a hit on that blood we found at the crime scene. You know, from the unknown perp? Found a DNA match to an unsolved case down in Philadelphia—another murder. But before we could even work that angle, these government assholes showed up. Some agency I've never heard of... Counter terrorism, or joint terrorism, or something... I don't know..." He waves a hand. "Claimed they had jurisdiction for some bullshit, made-up reason. And then they cleaned us out—took everything. Took everything on the Philly case, too. Now I've got nothing. And my boss says to just drop it..."

"Are you going to? Drop it, I mean," Stephen asks. García doesn't seem like the type to give up so easily.

"What choice do I have?" He kicks at the chair leg, frowns. "Man, I hate to leave a case unsolved. It really gets to me… not knowing."

Stephen nods. He can sympathize—he's got the same problem. Maybe someday, he'll tell García everything. But right now, it's probably best to keep him in the dark.

Time to change the subject.

Stephen folds his hands on the desk, expectantly. "But you didn't come here just to tell me that. You could've done it over the phone."

García smiles at him, leans back in his chair. "Yeah. I've got something for you—more weird shit. You up for that?" He leans over the arm of the chair to grab something out of his bag.

Stephen's phone vibrates against the desk. He glances over. Ross again. He'd gotten Stephen's number somehow, probably easy given he has an entire government agency at his disposal...

This is at least the eighth call this morning. And Stephen has a pretty good idea what Ross is calling about. He decides to ignore it for now, lets the phone ring.

García's eyes flick back and forth between the phone and Stephen's face. "Uh... Do you need to take that?"

"No. It's not important—just some asshole. You were saying…?"

"Oh yeah, right... Check these out." He slaps two photos down on the desk in front of Stephen, and arranges them side-by-side. One looks like a copy of an older photo, black and white, the other is modern, glossy—a shot of a crime scene. Both show nearly the same image: symbols in a pattern of concentric circles drawn on a wall in a room, using some kind of dark substance. It's obvious from the modern photo that the substance is blood.

"This one"—García taps the older photo—"was taken on October 31st, 1917. Halloween night. It was a huge sensation at the time. A woman—a known prostitute—found murdered in a hotel room. Throat slit from ear to ear. And these weird symbols on the wall, written in her blood. Even made the papers down here in the city. Like I said, huge scandal. Started this local outcry—the whole town becoming obsessed with 'rooting out Satanists', that sort of bullshit... No one was ever caught, of course. And not much of an investigation was done, even for back then... The only reason anyone even gave a fuck at all is because of this creepy-ass writing."

Stephen nods.

"After a few years, everyone forgot about it. Until last night..." García gestures at the other photo. "Housekeeping staff found this today. Same hotel—the place is like a historic landmark now or something. Same damn room. On the same night, one hundred years later." He leans closer, eyes intent. "No body this time, but someone was definitely killed in that room last night."

That seems obvious. There are dark splashes of blood on the floor and wall under the writing. Stephen runs his fingers over his beard, thinking. The pattern of writing definitely suggests a spell. The symbols are messy, but he can identify most of them. "It's Sumerian. Archaic cuneiform," he says quietly.

García looks surprised. "Uh... yeah. That's basically what the guy over at the Natural History Museum said. He couldn't translate it, though, said it didn't make any sense. But, to me, this part right here looks a little like that magic circle thing. Remember?" He taps at the photo. "So I thought I'd bring it by. See what you think."

Stephen shrugs and pulls the two photos closer so he can compare them. It's an obscure writing system, for sure, though anyone with the right book could make these marks…

"A copycat?" he hazards.

The detective taps his lip, thoughtfully. "Maybe..."

Stephen squints at the photos. The symbols look almost the same, but there are subtle differences that stand out once you really stare at them. To the untrained eye, it might just look like someone did a sloppy job copying the originals. But Stephen knows what he's seeing: variations on a theme—two different, but related spells.

He looks up sharply at García. 

The other man grins slowly. "It's something, right? Something weird?"

"Oh, yeah." He can't quite keep the excitement out of his voice. He sits up straighter, picks up the recent photo. "Where did you say this was?" He needs to go there, check this out in person. See what he can feel at the actual crime scene. This could be big...

"Upstate. Town called Peekskill. I'm heading up there after I'm done here in the city. I can give you a ride if you want. But I don't have a way to get you back—"

"Not a problem. I've got my own way to get around."

García smirks at him. "I figured you did." He holds up a hand. "Don't worry—I'm not going to ask you to explain it. Probably blow my mind, anyway..."

His eyes wander over Stephen's desk, settle on the small wooden box sitting in the corner near him. "Is this..?" He reaches out a hand to touch it, runs a finger over the smooth wood.

The carving on top really is beautiful, Stephen thinks. The person who made it so long ago must have been a master craftsman.

"This must be old, huh?" García asks.

Stephen just nods, thinking. He sets the photos down on the desk.

"Reminds me of a place I used to visit with my grandma back in Colombia. Before we came to New York." García's voice has gone quiet. "A church. Really old one. Had these huge wooden doors, and every inch of them was covered in this fantastic carving. Animal shapes, people, plants, stories from the Bible... I used to stare at them for hours, wonder how long it took someone to do that. All that work..." He shakes his head, seems to remember where he is. "Jeez, man. I haven't thought about that in years. Guess I'm getting old."

"No worries. We're all getting older."

"This box is magic or something, right?"

"Sort of."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not anymore." It's nothing now—just a pretty box. He'd wrecked the spells that opened the gateway to the other dimension. Maybe that was a desecration of a valuable relic—Wong will probably be pissed—but he doesn't care. No one needs to go there. Not to that place.

It was surprisingly easy to swap the real box for a fake one during the chaos after the gateway was finally closed. His decoy wasn't even that good—there was no way he could have matched the carving exactly with the time he had—but it was good enough to fool Ross and his team of magical experts.

Stephen's phone starts vibrating again and he picks it up so he can see the caller ID. Ross, of course.

He's surprised the spell lasted as long as it did, given how weak he was when he cast it. More than enough time for him to go back to the warehouse and grab the real thing after Ross's people had cleared out. The spell that disguised the relic as a cardboard box had finally broken down this morning, eight days later. Stephen's guessing Ross isn't too pleased with the surprise he'd gotten when he went into work today, found his magic box had turned into an old car battery overnight.

"Are you sure you don't want to get that, man? Sounds like it might be something important."

"It's really not." Stephen smiles a little as he blocks Ross's number. Probably only take that asshole five minutes before he gets another one, but it still feels good.

He looks back up at Detective García and his smile widens into a grin.

"Now..." he says, "tell me more about this case."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: minor character death, violence, pigeon abuse, some gross-ass magic, references to depression, very vague references to suicide
> 
> Extended author's notes [here](https://oldbluethings.tumblr.com/post/177925612839/spark-and-fade-oldblue-doctor-strange-2016) on my Tumblr.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Very, very loose sequel: _Children of the Old Moon_


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